Sweeter Than Pumpkin Pie
by SillyUsagi
Summary: Keith is sick, and Lance is determined not to let Keith die from his own ineptitude.
1. Tuesday

**A/N:** I don't know what happened, y'all. I really don't. This was just supposed to be a short little sick fic. Somehow it became … this? Hahaha. But this is a late birthday gift for the incandescent kenbrah, who totally deserves a long fic~ Happy belated birthday, Liv! Thanks for always squealing about klance with me x) I've become entirely dependent on you for my klance fangirling~

Please excuse any minor typos. This chapter is huge and I didn't have time to neatly comb through the entire thing.

I hope you enjoy!

* * *

 **Tuesday**

There's a blaring noise searing through his head, and with a muffled moan Keith finally manages to pry open his eyes. He slams his hand on his alarm, arm feeling like lead, and manages another moan.

He feels like shit. Absolute and utter shit. His head is pounding, his ears feel as clogged as his nose, and there's a relentless itch in his throat. He pulls his comforter tighter against the cold dorm air as he glares at the clock blinking 8:49.

There's no way that he'll make it to class on time, even if he somehow manages to haul his ass out of bed in this condition. He turns to the side, ready to let Hunk know, only to find an empty bed on the other side of the room. An overwhelming sense of panic seeps over Keith— _did Hunk not come home last night? But he_ always _comes back to the dorm. What if he's hurt? What if someone drugged him? What if_ —before his foggy brain finally decides to remember that Hunk left yesterday evening for his trip to Hawaii, leaving a day early for Thanksgiving break. Keith lets himself fall back onto his mattress with a muffled _thump_ and a relieved sigh.

His eyelids feel heavy, slowly fluttering back down over his eyes… _Wait, no!_ Keith forces his eyes open once more. He needs to Email his professor first. Then he can sleep all he wants.

He gropes blindly around his nightstand, managing to knock over the half-drunk water bottle from yesterday evening before his fingers finally stumble upon his phone. He types a quick message, hits send, then glances down… only to notice belatedly that the all of three sentences he wrote to his prof are somehow littered with a solid ten typos. Well, maybe the poor state of his Email will convince Dr. Coran to have a little extra sympathy for him.

Keith's eyelids are still fighting a downward battle for all they're worth, but he forces himself to sit up in bed. Instantly his head is reeling, and the entire room feels off-kilter. One deep breath. Then another. And another. Slowly the room stops spinning, and Keith manages to look around.

The itchiness in his throat is taking a turn for the worst, feeling more and more like sandpaper the longer he's awake. The headache hasn't subsided at all. He pushes off of the bed and over to his desk, quickly grabbing and opening the bottle of Ibuprofen… only to find it empty. _Shit. Shit shit shit._ He hadn't remembered to buy more yet.

With a grimace, Keith bends over in front of the mini fridge. _Please let there be water_ , he begs silently, though with little hope. One small sliver of him _knows_ that he had taken the last bottle the night before, but maybe…

The door swings open, proudly displaying the vast emptiness that lies behind. There is absolutely _nothing_ , not even one of Hunk's pops.

He stands back up, nudging the door closed perhaps a _touch_ more force than necessary. It's possible that Hunk has some medicine lying around… Keith scans the other side of the room, but nothing catches his eye. As much as he likes Hunk, and he thinks Hunk returns the sentiment, Keith is not about to scrounge through his roommate's possessions in search of medicine that possibly doesn't exist.

His head gives a particularly sharp stab behind his eyes, and Keith gives up. _Later_. He can deal with finding medicine and cool fluids later. For now, his lukewarm, half-drunk bottle from last night will have to do. He screws his eyes shut as he downs a mouthful and flinches as it sears across his throat, before recapping and tossing the bottle back to the ground.

 _Sleep_ , his eyelids demand, and he finds he has no room to argue with them. Keith lays back down, pulling the blanket as tight around him as he can manage, and curls onto his side.

He's on the edge of slipping into a—if not peaceful, then at least relieving—slumber when his phone chirps insistently. Keith groans, dragging the covers over his head and scrunching his eyes further closed to block out the noise. Twenty seconds later, it chirps again, the noise somehow managing to sound even louder despite the extra barrier. When it chirps a third time, Keith snarls and turns over, cursing whoever re-ignited the pounding in his head as he grabs for his phone.

 **Lance (9:04):** where r u?  
 **Lance (9:04):** ditchin the last day b4 break?

 **Lance (9:05):** unfair mullet head

Keith groans louder, the bright screen threading pain right through his eyes and into his head, even as his stomach does a little flipflop. He rarely has the energy to deal with Lance on a good day, let alone on a shitty morning like today. He tries not to think too hard about the fact that Lance noticed his absence. _Of course he did_ , he tells himself. _His lab partner's missing. He's probably worried about having to do all the work by himself_. Keith's gruff excuses don't manage to stop his stomach from performing yet another backflip. Damn, why did he have to get so flustered over this stupid jackass?

He squints at the screen, wincing as his head heaves another painful throb.

 **Keith (9:07):** sick

For a split second, Keith considers typing more… But he's already having a hard time keeping his eyes open and focused on the small screen in front of him, and his headache has increased tenfold in the last two minutes. Go figure—Lance seems to have that effect on him. So instead he drops his phone back onto his nightstand and wraps himself into a blanket cocoon.

…

The world is shaking, he notes with no small amount of irritation. It's shaking, and there are hands on his arm, and—

Keith opens his eyes to find Lance's face only inches away. With a startled yelp, he scrambles back in his bed, legs getting caught in his sheets as he violently attempts to push the other man away. He can already feel a bright flush—one that has nothing to do with his fever—working its way down his cheeks and onto his neck. Somehow, he manages to force a bewildered "What the hell!?" out of his tight, painful throat.

Lance frowns—actually has the fucking nerve to _frown_ —at him, then proceeds to roll his eyes. "Dude, I come all the way over here to check on you and _this_ is the reception I get?"

Keith doesn't even know how to respond—is still trying to simply force his throbbing head into _functioning_ properly, because nothing is making sense right now. His mouth works wordlessly for a moment, his brain still trying to comprehend the fact that Lance is standing here. In front of him. In his room. Finally, he manages to choke out, "How did you even get _in here_?"

Lance waves his hand dismissively. "Hunk showed me how to break in in case he ever needs me to grab something for him."

Wait, what. _What?_

This is _so_ not okay on _so_ many freaking levels, and he is _so_ going to need to have a talk with Hunk about this. Nonetheless, Lance's explanation still doesn't answer the more pressing question. "Okay," Keith rasps, "but _why_ are you here?"

The question takes Lance off guard—Keith can see it in the way he reels back slightly. And is that … a slight flush on Lance's face? The lights are all still off in the room, so maybe it's just the atrocious headache messing with his perception.

Lance recovers quickly, crossing his arms as he looks down along that stupidly pointy nose at Keith. "You sent me a one word text, and then didn't reply to any of my other texts, like you were dying from the fucking plague," he grouses. He shifts, tightening the grip of his crossed arms, and quickly adds, "I didn't want to be culpable if your sorry ass died or something."

"Oh," Keith manages. Which is really fucking eloquent. Except his head is pounding, and he's still having trouble believing this isn't some kind of fever dream, and his goddamn useless throat seems to be having trouble forming complex sounds. So instead his mouth simply supplies another, "Oh."

Silence stretches between them, and it is becoming more apparent with each passing second that his dual "ohs" are an insufficient reply. Keith closes his eyes and takes a moment to try to gather his thoughts into some form of coherence. When he opens them again, he shoots Lance an apologetic look. "I'm not, uh, dying or anything. Just feeling really shitty, and couldn't focus long enough to type out a better reply before falling back asleep." There's silence again, stretching painfully thin between them, so Keith awkwardly adds, "That's all."

He's pretty sure Lance _is_ , in fact, blushing, since he seems to be turning even more red. His face is still really fucking close, and his mere proximity is turning Keith's stomach into a full out rollercoaster, like the moon dragging the tides, and oh lord this is too much for his fogged up mind to take right now.

Thankfully, Lance takes it upon himself to break the silence with his own, "Oh." Keith is satisfied to realize that they are on the same level when it comes to articulation.

"Well then…" Lance says, fumbling a bit, "sorry to, y'know, bust in." He pushes himself up, the edge of the bed creaking and dipping under his weight as he stands. Half turned toward the door, he adds, "You got enough Dayquil to last you?"

Keith frowns. "... What?"

The effect on Lance is instantaneous: his forehead creases, and strange look of disbelief mixed with incredulity blossoms across his face. It would be rather hysterical if Keith weren't finding it so hard to think straight right now.

"Dayquil?" Lance says. "Or did you take Nyquil instead? Is that why you passed out? When was your last dose?"

Keith opens his mouth to reply—and is abruptly cut off by a wracking wave of coughs that leave his sore throat in tatters. When the fit subsides, Keith manages a wincing shrug and rasps, "I don't have any of that stuff."

Lance frowns, his thin eyebrows creasing his forehead. If Keith didn't know any better, he would almost call his expression concerned. "Okay," Lance says, taking a step closer to the bed, "then what _did_ you take?"

Keith shakes his head—either in answer or in an attempt to clear his mind, he's not entirely sure. "I was going to take some Ibuprofen…"

Lance's eyes narrow suspiciously. "You were _going to_?" he asks, voice dangerously low. The sound reverberates through Keith's tight chest.

His throat is screaming bloody murder, but Keith somehow replies, "Forgot I'm out."

Lance suddenly straightens up, glaring down at Keith as he places his hands on his hips. His _ridiculously slender_ hips. Keith doesn't understand it. The man's hips look thin enough to snap like a twig, fine enough that it should probably be illegal, and—oh lord, his head is a fucking _mess_.

"Are you telling me you didn't take _anything_?" Lance demands.

Keith opens his mouth, then winces as his throat twinges painfully. He settles for a half-hearted shrug, because really, what else can he say? At this point the answer is pretty obvious.

The look Lance gives him leaves shame curling like ashes in Keith's chest, a reaction that takes Keith completely off guard. Right now, Lance looks almost as intimidating as Allura when she catches someone trying to wriggle out of their work. Somehow, the equation of Lance and high expectations is not adding properly in his head.

Lance heaves a long sigh, as if _he's_ the one suffering. But the glance he shoots Keith is full of thinly veiled concern as he asks, "What's hurting?"

Keith shifts uncomfortably in his blankets. Lance is making this into too big of a deal, because really, as shitty as he feels right now, things will be _fine_. But when he meets Lance's gaze, all he finds is stubborn expectation, and Keith suddenly knows that Lance is not going to leave him alone until he comes clean. Gruffly, he says, "My head hurts. My nose is running, and my ears are ringing, and my throat hurts like a _bitch_." He stops to consider, then adds, "I might be running a fever."

Before his mind can process the action, Lance is leaning over him and placing his cool palms on either side of Keith's neck. Keith is stunned into immobility, eyes wide and heart racing furiously as Lance gently prods beneath his jaw. His hands feel nice—too nice, cool and calming against his skin.

Lance hums thoughtfully, pulling his hands away. Keith immediately misses them. "You're warm… but your glands aren't swollen, so I doubt it's strep," Lance informs him. "You're not puking?"

Keith shakes his head, not trusting his voice.

"That's good," Lance says, nodding his head. "And you're congested and have a headache. Yeah, I'm pretty sure it's safe to say you just have a cold."

Keith's head is spiraling.

Did Lance somehow become a medical provider in the last twenty-four hours? Because Keith isn't sure how else to explain the class jackass standing here before him, succinctly analyzing his symptoms and providing his professional diagnosis.

He's still blinking away his confusion when Lance says, "Hold on. I'll go grab the Dayquil from my room."

Whereas all the other of this morning's surprises have left Keith speechless, this one jolts the words right out of his mouth. "No," he says quickly, already feeling the heat rising in his cheeks. "Really, you don't have to—"

Lance doesn't even bother to listen, instead holding up an insistent hand to shut Keith up as he walks to the door. "Don't whine or I might change my mind," he says, shooting Keith a glare. "I'll be right back."

 _I definitely need to do something about that lock_ , Keith decides, watching critically as Lance drags the door closed behind him. The thought of Lance being able to just walk in _at any time_ —yeah, nope. He cannot handle that possibility.

The room feels oddly quiet, now that Lance is gone. It's not silence, but rather the intrusive, noisy kind of quiet that presses in on his already stuffed ears and produces a low, endless ringing. Even the air feels too close, as if it's as congested as his head, and leaves him feeling squeezed into the box of his room. And his head and throat are feeling as shitty as ever. With a groan, Keith drops back down onto his pillow.

Who even knew that Lance could be so … capable.

Then again, Keith wonders why he's even surprised at this point. They've been stuck together as lab partners all semester, and Keith realizes that he should know by now that nothing about Lance is as straightforward as it seems.

On that first day, when Keith had looked over at the other massively late, rain drenched student that he had been stuck with as his partner, he had been pissed at his heart for suddenly picking up its tempo. (Because really—first day of school, first class of the day, freshman year, and he's already got a thing for his lab partner? Is it possible to be any more cliche?) He had been even _more_ pissed with himself, however, when his partner had opened his mouth and revealed what a whiny asshole he was. Being attracted to his lab partner would have been embarrassing, but manageable. But being attracted to the physical embodiment of a shithead? That's just downright shameful.

Or so he had thought.

In reality, Lance is just … Lance. A walking contradiction who somehow evades any logical explanation. Sure, he's annoying and talks too much and is overly cocky and generally a real pain in the ass. But Keith also figured out pretty quickly that the guy actually cares about getting a good grade in their Physics lab. He doesn't just dump all the work on Keith, but actually puts in his fair share… even if he complains enough for four people.

And then there's the fact that Hunk is Lance's best friend. Obviously there has to be _something_ good about the guy, if he's earned such loyal friendship from someone as kindhearted and genuine as Hunk.

Hell, even his shitty little playboy attitude seems to be more of an act than anything. As much as Lance hits on any person he finds mildly attractive—including their goddamn TAs, much to Shiro's embarrassment and Allura's chagrin—Keith has seen Lance apologize on more than one occasion and back down with good grace when someone tells him to lay off. He could definitely use some additional education in picking up on more subtle clues to back the fuck off, but the guy is actually less of a douche than half of the other guys on campus.

Somewhere along the way, Keith has stopped being pissed that he's attracted to an annoying asshole. Which, he decides, is a problem in and of itself. Because without that excuse to fall back on, Keith is finding it harder and harder to stamp down the fluttery feelings Lance always seems capable of yanking into his stomach.

There's a thump on the door, and Keith has only a moment to half push himself up in bed before Lance is fumbling with the handle and walking back into the room.

"Kay," Lance says, kicking the door closed behind him. Kicking, Keith realizes, because his hands are _completely full_. "I grabbed the Dayquil. You should take this right away so it can work it's magic. Aaaaand"—Lance flourishes a travel coffee mug in front of him—"I brought you some water to wash it down. Try to drink all of it to keep yourself hydrated." Lance places the two bottles down on the night stand, freeing up one of his arms.

"I also brought these," he says, placing two applesauce cups beside the Dayquil. "I don't have much food lying around my room, but I know how painful eating can be with a sore throat, so those should be good."

Finally, he chucks a box of tissues onto the bed, right next to Keith. With a shrug, he says, "Those are pretty self explanatory."

Keith struggles to force his mouth closed. Instead, all he manages to do is stare at Lance in disbelief.

Lance rolls his eyes. "Sorry, do you _actually_ need me to walk you through this one, mullet head?" He grabs a tissue. "You use these to blow your nose. I can demonstrate if you—"

"Oh, shut up!" Keith manages to snap, swiping the tissue away before Lance can give him a play-by-play. He immediately thinks better of it and mumbles, "Just… thanks."

"No biggie," Lance says with an offhand shrug. He reaches down to take out his phone, then flinches and mutters a barely audible, "Shit!" The quiet exclamation takes Keith off guard, but before he can ask, Lance is already shoving his phone back into his pocket.

"Alright, you should be good for now," Lance tells him, glancing one last time at the pile of supplies he brought with him. "Sorry to take off so quickly, but I gotta run. I'll check on you later."

With barely a backwards glance, Lance is out the door and gone, leaving Keith alone and completely confused.

Pushing away his lingering butterflies—Lance would check on him later? He was coming _back_?—Keith reaches over to his nightstand and picks up the bottle of meds. As he does, he catches a glimpse of his clock: 10:31.

Oh. _Oh_. Sudden realization washes over Keith. His addled brain had simply assumed that he had slept well into the afternoon, but obviously he had only been asleep for a little more than an hour. Their lab ends at 10:05 on Tuesdays, and Keith is well aware that Lance has a class that begins at 10:20 sharp on the same end of campus. He's heard Lance griping on more than one occasion that he doesn't even have time to grab a quick breakfast between classes since his hardnose prof won't accept excuses for being late.

Their dorm is on the west end of campus. A solid fifteen minute jog from their Physics lab.

Keith watches in disbelief as the clock clicks to 10:32.

Did that idiot actually run over here as soon as the lab was done to check on him? Run literally _across campus_ knowing full well he'd be late to his Communications class just to make sure that Keith wasn't—what were his words?— _dying from the fucking plague_?

"Oh shit," Keith mutters. He desperately wishes he could melt into his blankets and never get up again. It isn't fair—Lance isn't allowed to be _so friggin' cute_. Stomach bubbling with giddiness, Keith quickly attempts to distract himself and refocuses his attention on the bottle of Dayquil in his hands.

He reads the label to get the dosage information and takes a quick glance at the warnings. It seems harmless enough. He twists off the lid, sniffs, and—

The strong scent of alcohol nearly knocks him backward. It's sharp, accompanied by the smell of overly sugary syrup that makes him cringe. He pours out a dose of the nasty orange stuff into the accompanying measuring cup and eyes it with distaste. Another quick sniff reveals it to be just as nasty as his first whiff.

Keith forces himself to just knock it back and get it over with quickly. The liquid is runny and light, instantly coating his tongue with a sickening amount of sweetness. Surprisingly, it burns his throat as he swallows, searing its way to his stomach. He is exceedingly thankful that Lance brought water as well, and quickly grabs the mug to try to rid himself of the awful taste. It's cool in his mouth and soothing on his tender throat. It doesn't do much to wash away the terrible flavor, but is a welcome relief nonetheless.

After several gulps, Keith sets the bottle and the mug back on his nightstand and settles down on his bed. The sheets are oddly stifling, and he kicks them to the foot of the mattress before curling up on his side and hugging the box of tissues to his chest.

Now that he's awake, Keith finds that he isn't particularly tired, despite _feeling_ exhausted. His head is still throbbing, his throat still constricting tightly with each breath, but his eyes remain insistently open. His ears are ringing again, and Keith does his best to block out the noise.

For likely the hundredth time in his life, Keith is forced to confront how much he _hates_ being sick.

He doesn't mind being alone, usually. Doesn't mind the quiet, or sitting still, or simply thinking. But when he's sick, sitting in the quiet becomes a particular kind of torture. It's not the pain or discomfort—not that either of those things are a particular joy. But there's something disconcerting about his body feeling _wrong_ and being powerless to do anything about it.

He finds himself wishing Lance were back already, if for nothing more than to have a distraction. It's a selfish thought—and a touch unnerving at that. Instead, he rolls onto his other side and squeezes the tissue box tighter.

…

It's a bit startling, Lance decides, how little Keith seems to know about taking care of himself properly. Or, at the very least, how little he bothers to.

He juggles the plastic bags he's holding into his left hand, freeing up his right to grab out his keys.

Because seriously. Does the guy even _know_ what Dayquil is? The blank stare he'd given Lance earlier seems to indicate otherwise.

Lance twists the key in the lock and bumps the door open with his hip, careful not to crush his bags in the process.

Pidge looks up from their laptop as he ambles into their double. "Dude, are you gonna pack?" they ask, adjusting their glasses. Lance spares a glance to see a stuffed duffel bag sitting on the bed beside them. "Wasn't your mom gonna pick you up tonight?"

Lance drops the grocery bags onto his bed unceremoniously, rubbing at the crease the plastic has dug into his palm. "Nah," he replies with a shrug. "I'll have her pick me up tomorrow."

Lance bends over to dig through the bags, pulling out several items as he searches for the box of gum he'd picked up.

For a moment, the room is filled with the sound of rustling plastic. Then, slowly, Pidge asks, "Is that … soup?"

Lance pauses mid-search, looking over at the few items he's placed on his covers. A can of Campbell's chicken noodle lies nestled between two bottles of Canada Dry. "Yeah?" Lance replies, perhaps a touch defensively. "What's it to you?"

He doesn't miss the way that Pidge's eyes narrow suspiciously. Lance willfully ignores their look, and instead digs back into the bag to retrieve his box of Stride.

" _Dude_ ," Pidge says. "Did you stop by the Union on your way home to pick all of that up … for Keith?"

They're using a certain tone—a tone that's filled with all sorts of implications that Lance doesn't want to think about. So he just ignores them, turning on his heel and walking over to his desk.

He can feel a small amount of heat threatening his cheeks, though he aggressively swipes his wrist across his face to keep it away.

So yeah, okay? Maybe he _did_ go out of his way to stop at the Union. Maybe he _did_ stop to pick up some stuff for Keith. So what? It's not a big deal. He can't just let a friend—because they are, surprisingly, friends—suffer all alone. His crush on Keith has nothing to do with this. Of course not.

Lance grabs his bowl, a spoon and fork, and two mugs from his desk, then turns to find Pidge grinning slyly over the top of their laptop.

"Boy," they announce, "you've got it _baaaad_."

Lance looses a huff and throws his hands in the air, bowl and silverware clutched in one hand, the two mugs clutched in the other. "He didn't even have any medicine, Pidge, did you know that? Nothing—not even some Motrin!" Lance shakes his head and moves back over to his bed, putting the kitchenware into one of the bags. "He was just going to lie in bed and waste away until, I dunno, his parents came and picked him up or something."

"His parents?" Pidge asks, sounding confused. "I thought Keith wasn't going home over break."

Lance stops cold, frozen halfway through the motion of re-bagging the soup. His mind in stalling, grasping for the reason he had so grossly misunderstood what Pidge just said. Because there is no way that he heard correctly. Five, ten, fifteen seconds later, his mind is still turning up blank.

Lance whirls around to face Pidge and finds his roommate watching him with a small shrug.

"Seriously?" he asks, _just in case_. Because maybe—

"Well, yeah," Pidge replies. "I'm pretty sure that's what I heard him say the other day."

"Oh _hell_ no," Lance swears fiercely. He shakes his head, taking a deep breath to try to reign his frustration back in.

Was that idiot serious? What had Keith planned on doing? Just lying in his bed and _dying_ for a week straight? When nearly _every other person_ in the dorm would be gone? What if his cold had gotten way worse? What if he _had_ had strep? Or the flu? Had Keith even bothered to let anyone else know he was sick?

Lance hisses an irritated groan that borders on a growl, then quickly turns back to his bed. He packs up the last of his supplies, nearly throwing the second bottle of Canada Dry into the bag. Which, on second thought, might not be the best idea.

 _Oh yeah?_ Lance thinks to himself. _Well maybe_ Keith _isn't such a great idea. Ever think of that?_ The threat sounds as lame as it does nonsensical, even in his own head. Lance growls again, a wicked frown dragging down on his lips.

"Well," Pidge says, interrupting his harried thoughts. "I'm going to be heading out in about ten minutes. I hope you have a nice break. Tell Keith I hope he feels better."

Lance hefts his bags and grunts. "Yeah, you have a good break, too. Say hi to your mom for me."

Pidge merely waves in return, not even bothering to throw in a jibe as Lance heads back out the door. This is, he supposes, a testament to how agitated he must appear, since Pidge _never_ misses an opportunity to slice Lance up with their silver tongue.

As he heads down the hall, Lance slides his phone from his pocket. He thumbs down through his texts, then pulls up his messages with his mom.

 **Lance (3:24):** hey mamá

 **Lance (3:24):** sorry for the last min notice but a friend of mine is sick

 **Lance (3:24):** im gonna stay with him to make sure hes okay since every1 is leaving for break

 **Lance (3:25):** u dont need to bother to pick me up tonite

Lance doesn't even have the chance to lower his phone before it lights up with her reply.

 **Mami (3:25):** Oh dear, okay. Should I pick you up sometime tomorrow instead?

Lance reads the message, then hesitates, unsure how to respond. The logical answer would be to agree. He can stay an extra night at the dorm to make sure that Keith is well enough to survive, then head home for Thanksgiving.

Because _Thanksgiving_. He _loves_ Thanksgiving. Though Lance would never admit it to anyone, it even beats out Christmas for his favorite holiday. It's the one time of the year when his entire family gets together—not just his mom's side, who all live close, but also his dad's siblings and parents, who live much further away. Everyone brings their specialties, resulting in entire tables filled with the most delicious food he has ever come across. And it's nice to simply visit with everyone—even his siblings and cousins, competitive though they may sometimes be.

Lance has been looking forward to it for the past month, using Thanksgiving break and the accompanying buffet of wonderful food as a way to get himself through the past few particularly grueling weeks of classes.

And yet…

What if Pidge is right? What if they somehow _hadn't_ misheard Keith? If that idiot _is_ actually staying at the dorm, Lance will feel pretty shitty leaving him behind all by himself. While he's sick, no less.

Lance glances at his phone again, mouth twisting into a frown. _Am I seriously considering giving up Thanksgiving dinner to take care of this trainwreck of a jerk?_

On second thought, he decides it's better not to answer that question and all that it implies. He sighs, then types up a reply.

 **Lance (3:26):** i dunno yet ill text u back later

He shoves his phone back into his pocket, trying his best to ignore the small voice in the back of his mind—one that sounds suspiciously like Pidge—telling him that he already knows what the answer is.

…

This time, Keith wakes to the sound of knocking at his door. Despite the fog hanging heavy in his head and a small wave of irritation, he decides he strongly prefers this type of wake up call to being shaken.

Keith tries to respond and is silenced by phlegm catching in his throat. He heaves a solid cough to clear it, then manages a hoarse, groggy, "Yeah?"

"I'm coming in!" Lance calls from the hallway, voice muffled.

Before Keith can gather the energy to protest, the handle of his door jiggles, produces a worrisome _chank_ , and then gives way. He frowns in concern as Lance enters. This needs to be addressed, he decides, even as his head gives an insistent throb. Right now. Because Lance coming in whenever he wants is a _problem_ , and—

Keith's thoughts are cut off completely as Lance sits on the edge of his bed and leans over him. "How're you feeling?" Lance asks. His voice is far too gentle to be fair.

He reaches forward and places a cool, lithe hand against Keith's forehead. Any possible reply instantly dies on Keith's tongue, giving way to an accidental sigh. He might be feeling slightly better than he had this morning, but he isn't feeling great by any definition of the word. In contrast, Lance's touch is reassuring and calming and _so good_. Even the ache at the back of his head fades somewhat. Without meaning to, Keith's eyes slide closed.

 _I want him to leave his hand here forever._

The thought is sudden and startling, and Keith feels the bottom fall out from his stomach. It's the truth, however, and he feels too comfortable here, with Lance's hand soothing him, to even attempt to pull away.

Lance hums thoughtfully and shifts ever-so-slightly on the bed. His fingers gently brush Keith's gross, sweaty bangs away from his forehead, then pause suddenly, hesitating in the act. After a moment, Lance's hand pulls away completely, and Keith has to resist a disappointed sigh as he reopens his eyes.

"You still feel pretty warm," Lance tells him, frowning a bit. "Can you sit up?"

Keith groans, closing his eyes again. He may be awake, but simply the thought of moving seems like far too much effort. Can't he just lay here in peace, preferably with Lance's cool fingers tracing across his forehead?

Groggy though he is, Keith recognizes this as the exact _wrong_ response to give—for several reasons. So, with a deep breath, he manages to push himself up to sitting, his arms feeling surprisingly weak as they support his weight.

He takes another deep breath once he's upright, his head spinning ever so slightly. He's almost feeling steady when Lance leans forward, his face suddenly _very_ close to Keith's. The spinning in Keith's head kicks up a notch.

"You still haven't answered me," Lance admonishes. His face is close enough that his words brush light puffs of air across Keith's cheek. "How're you feeling?"

"A little better," Keith mumbles, not quite able to meet Lance's eyes. "My head hurts something awful."

"You still sound pretty stuffed up, too," Lance replies, his frown growing when Keith nods in agreement. He looks down at the clock on Keith's bedside table. "It's only 3:30. You took the meds when I told you to?"

"Yes," Keith croaks, swallowing at the snot running down the back of his throat. Lance passes him the half-empty travel mug from his nightstand and he hums in thanks. The water is warm by now and still makes him wince as it glances across his sore throat, but it provides some small degree of relief.

Lance sighs as he watches Keith drink. "There's still another hour until you can take some more, but the first dose is probably already wearing off. Are you hungry?"

The question takes Keith off guard. He lowers the mug slowly as he considers. "Yeah, actually. I am," he replies, a bit surprised to recognize the hollow ache in the pit of his stomach. Come to think of it, the only thing he's eaten all day was one of Lance's apple sauces when he had woken up briefly around noon.

Lance nods, then pushes himself up from the bed. "Okay, c'mon. Grab your blanket and follow me."

Keith watches Lance with a skeptical frown. His bed is warm and offers at least some level of comfort. And out beyond his door are people and cold, too large spaces. "I mean," he stalls, glancing longingly at his pillow, "I'm sure everyone else won't want me getting them sick…"

Lance scoffs. "Well, seeing as basically everyone has either left or is on their way out for break, I'm pretty sure they could care less."

Keith opens his mouth, ready to protest, but is cut short as Lance takes a step closer to the bed. He holds out his hands in a clear offer to help. Keith stares at his proffered hands for a moment before looking away in embarrassment. "I can get up by myself," he grumbles.

Lance pretends not to hear—or just ignores the statement. He steps even closer, wrapping his hands around Keith's and giving a soft but steady tug. Keith's hands instinctively tighten in his grip. His heart is hammering so loud that he worries Lance can hear it in their close proximity. With a grumbling sigh he relents, allowing Lance to help pull him to his feet.

For the briefest of seconds they're left standing face to face, hands still clasped and all but an inch of space between them. If Keith's head was spinning before, it's positively reeling now.

But then Lance slides his hands from Keith's grip and steps away, reaching down to grab something. The sudden emptiness is cold and hits Keith squarely in the chest. He sucks in a harsh breath as he fights off a wave of shivers.

"Here," Lance says, standing back up. A small weight presses down on Keith's shoulders as Lance drapes his comforter over him. Lance tugs at the corners, making sure the blanket is held in place over his back, then proceeds to fuss at the edges so they wrap snugly around him, leaving no bit exposed to the prying chill in the air.

By the time Lance straightens, Keith's face is in flames. Although the medicine has taken some of the edge off from his fever, Lance seems to be doing everything he can to bring it right back up again.

"Ready?" Lance asks, seemingly oblivious to the devastating effect he's inflicted on Keith.

"I…" Keith's voice utterly fails him. He coughs, then manages a rough, "Uh… yeah."

There's rustling as Lance scoops up some bags that Keith hadn't noticed from the floor. Then Lance shoots him his usual cocky grin—the one that so desperately annoys Keith—really, it does—it's annoying—he does _not_ find it endearing—and says, "Right, let's go get you some food."

Keith swallows down his fizzling uncertainty as he follows him from the room.

Lance leads him toward the dorm's small kitchen. Keith has never been more grateful that the communal room is located on their floor. It's not that walking is painful or anything, but his head still feels clogged and each step is an effort.

It's not a full kitchen, of course—the university doesn't trust a bunch of freshman with an oven, which seems like a smart decision to Keith. But the room has plenty of counter and cabinet space, two microwaves, a toaster, a sink, and a full-sized fridge. The kitchen is open and connected to a general lounge that's furnished with a few tables to eat at and several couches and arm chairs. Normally the area would be thrumming with conversation, but as Lance pointed out, all the residents are now focused on getting away as fast as they can, leaving the rooms empty and quiet.

Keith blinks in surprise as Lance drops his pillow onto one of the arm chairs— _when did he manage to grab that?_ —then heads over to the kitchen. He plops his bags onto the counter with little grace and immediately begins to rummage through them.

Curious, Keith inches closer to get a better look. First out is a mug, which Lance quickly fills with water, then pops into one of the microwaves. There's another mug next, adorned with curling letters that state _My mother was right about everything_. Lance throws on the faucet again, this time all the way to hot, then sticks his fingers under the water.

Keith watches on, feeling a bit lost. He wonders briefly if he should offer to help, though he has no idea what Lance is doing in the first place. Before he can make up his indecisive mind, Lance is already filling up the second cup. He places it on the counter, then reaches up to open the cabinet doors.

"Do you… need help?" Keith asks when Lance opens the third cabinet in a row.

"Nah," Lance replies, a deep frown creasing his brow. "I could have _sworn_ we had some—aha!"

Keith cannot help the surge of skeptical confusion as Lance proudly holds up a container of salt. He watches, speechless, as Lance measures out an entire _teaspoon_ of the stuff and then proceeds to stir it into the mug on the counter.

When he's done, he turns and offers the mug to Keith with a satisfied grin. "Here, take this," Lance says, attempting to hand off the mug. Attempting, because Keith's hands have remained stubbornly glued at his sides.

"That's… for me?" Keith asks flatly. His eyes narrow as he surveys the simple yet disgusting concoction before him.

" _Duh_." Lance rolls his eyes. Why is he acting as if _Keith's_ the one not making any sense here? "Do you see anyone else around?"

"I am not drinking that." Keith takes a solid step back, his head shaking ardently.

"Pfft, oh my god, no!" Lance bursts into laughter and gives Keith a disbelieving grin. "You don't _drink_ it. You gargle with it."

Keith is not convinced. He looks back down at the drink in Lance's hands, sniffling as he feels his nose start to run.

" _Oh my god_ ," Lance groans. He takes a step forward and shoves the mug toward Keith, who has no choice but to take it. "Just do it, you ding-dong. Seriously. It'll help your throat feel better, I promise." Lance gestures toward the sink. "Try not to make a mess."

Keith shoots Lance a nasty scowl—or, well, as nasty of a scowl as he can manage as he sniffles yet again. He shuffles over to the sink, mug clutched tightly in both hands. For a moment he considers just upending the cup down the drain. He sneaks a quick glance at Lance, only to find him standing to the side, arms crossed and eyes narrowed in hawk-like disdain. Seriously, the guy must be taking lessons from Allura or something. It's kind of unnerving. Deterred, Keith grumbles and turns back to the sink.

Keith takes a hesitant sip, and nearly spits the drink right back out. It's disgustingly warm and so salty that he feels a touch nauseous. He slowly tips his head back and attempts to gargle. The water feels even more gross bubbling in his throat, and he manages for all of two seconds before his head pitches forward to spit the shitty water into the sink.

Even after spitting, the heavy taste of salt clings to his tongue, cheeks, and the roof of his mouth. He glares with watery eyes at Lance, who simply gestures for Keith to try again. Keith closes his eyes and takes a deep breath to refrain from strangling him.

After a moment, he lifts the mug back to his mouth and takes another sip, smaller this time. It makes it _slightly_ easier to handle, now that there's less of the crap in his mouth, and Keith manages to gargle for a solid ten seconds before he bends over the sink and spits once again.

It takes forever—or, at least, that's how it feels—to take the entire mug in tiny sips. By the time Keith nears the bottom, his headache has actually managed to get _worse_ from the strain of trying not to throw up.

There's only a little left in the bottom, so Keith quickly takes it all in one swig and tips his head back. This, however, is a mistake. It's a far larger mouthful than any of the others, and as Keith attempts to gargle, the water begins to squeeze its way down his throat. He sputters and chokes, quickly leaning forward and retching the liquid into the sink. He does his best to ignore the way his stomach heaves in response and somehow manages to stop from _actually_ puking by taking long, shaking breaths.

Lance pats him on the back in what is probably meant to be a reassuring way. "Did you almost choke?" he asks, voice _far_ too cheerful to be acceptable. "Well, at least that'll help even more! You got it further down your throat."

Keith snarls, wiping aggressively at his watering eyes. Lance's tone is not helping in the least bit. He's starting to wonder if this is all some elaborate joke on Lance's part to make him look like an idiot—if it is, Keith will _kill him_ —when Lance pushes a second mug into his hands. Keith looks down, ready to outright refuse whatever new shit Lance has handed him, to find a cup of tea warming his palms.

"Sorry, I hate gargling that shit, too," Lance says with a sympathetic shrug. "It tastes nasty, but it really does help you feel better. Anyways, the tea should help clear away some of the taste."

Keith blinks, all of his anger melting away. Okay, so it's not a joke—just Lance continuing to be strangely helpful.

Lance takes him by the shoulders and steers him over to one of the lounge chairs. "I'm going to make you some food really quick," he tells Keith, pushing him into the chair. "You just sit down for now and drink some of that." Keith watches on, speechless, as Lance tugs at the blanket to make sure Keith's legs are covered, then tucks Keith's pillow behind his head.

He mumbles what could be taken for an embarrassed "Thanks" as Lance gives his blanket one final pat. Lance shrugs and waves Keith off, then heads back into the kitchen. Glancing over the edge of his blanket, Keith can see Lance digging back into his bags and getting to work.

There's an absurd amount of post-nasal drip easing its way down Keith's throat. Irritated, Keith swallows repeatedly to clear it away, then stops as realization dawns on him. The salt. It's helping to clear out his sinuses.

That's… well, quite honestly, that's disgusting. But, with a small flicker of guilt, Keith realizes that Lance's method is actually helping. As he swallows again, Keith notices that his throat also feels … weird. Not quite numb, but not quite normal either. It's a strange sensation, but it doesn't hurt anywhere near as much as it did before.

Keith shifts in the chair, considering the words weighing down his tongue. Finally, he asks, "Where did you pick all of this… this..."—he gestures uselessly as he searches for the right word—"caretaker shit up?"

Lance snorts, turning his head over his shoulder to roll his eyes at Keith. "Why?" he asks, voice taunting. "Are you surprised?"

"I mean, yes?" Keith answers truthfully. His tone is only _slightly_ mocking.

Lance shoots him a genuine _pout_. Lip jutting out, eyes quivering, entire face dragging down in disappointment—the whole nine yards. Keith rolls his eyes with exaggerated emphasis before burying his face in his mug to hide his rising blush. Goddammit, even his stupid pout is adorable.

The tea is a surprising balance of grassy and sweet, thick with honey that Lance must have mixed in. It's the perfect level of hot without scalding, and it sooths Keith's throat more than any other remedy he's tried so far. He takes several long sips, relishing the warm relief, before cradling the mug back in his lap.

Lance has remained surprisingly quiet, now fussing over some bread from one of his bags. As he shoves a couple slices into the toaster, his back to Keith, he finally says, "I've got three younger siblings, y'know?"

No, actually, he doesn't. Keith's never heard about Lance's family, and this is news to him. But he keeps quiet, patiently waiting for Lance to explain further.

Lance gives a short, awkward shrug, attention still focused on the food in front of him. "We've got a big family, and my mom works evenings. Often times when my siblings would get sick I was the one who took care of them and made sure they were resting up and getting better while my mom went to work." He shuffles his feet, then adds, "You pick stuff up pretty quickly that way."

The toaster suddenly pops, and Lance busies himself with grabbing the slices and placing them on a paper towel.

Everything suddenly makes sense. No wonder Lance knows what to do and so easily slides into the role of caretaker. That's just how it's always been for him. It's a bit weird to think of Lance as a nurturing older brother, but Keith supposes that it'd be hard _not_ to pick up such skills in a big family.

Something in that thought jogs Keith's memory. He takes another look around the very quiet, very empty common room. What had Lance said earlier—that everyone was either leaving or already gone for break? Hadn't Hunk said that Lance was going home tonight too? Tightening his grip on his mug, Keith asks, "So, what time are you heading out tonight?"

"Hm?" Lance asks distractedly. He's holding the fridge door open with his hip, examining a container of butter in the light. "You think this belongs to anyone?" he asks, turning the box around in his hands. "I don't _see_ a name. Doesn't that mean it's fair game?" He purses his lips, then nods. "Yeah, totally fair game."

He closes the door, then catches sight of Keith still watching him with an expectant look. "Oh, right," he replies, waving his free hand as he turns back to the toast. "I just told my mom not to bother."

Keith is fairly certain his heart has up and stopped. Because _what_? He had been talking with Hunk about their plans for break just yesterday. Keith _knows for a fact_ that Lance should technically be leaving any minute. Why did he change his mind?

A steady, persistent flush works its way across Keith's neck and into his cheeks. This isn't because of _him_ , is it? It's a ridiculous thought, and Keith instantly struggles to stamp it down. There's no way in hell that Lance would willing choose to stay at the dorms with _him_. … Right?

Lance, it seems, has also picked up on this possible implication. He's frozen in place at the counter, turned slightly as he watches Keith silently implode. When he notices Keith's attention, his face turns a charming shade of pink—Keith is absolutely certain of it, this time, since Lance is standing _directly under_ the kitchen lights.

Lance frowns defensively, quickly turning back to his toast. "It's all kind of up in the air right now," he says. He seems to be going for forced nonchalance, but the words are falling far too quickly from his mouth to be believable. "She's still trying to decide if she'll come pick me up tomorrow, y'know? It's not really a big deal. My family's only a few towns over—it's just a short car ride to get here. Like, no biggie. I see them all the time. Honestly, it would be _more_ of a break not to have to deal with them."

He's rambling, Keith realizes. Lance fucking McClain is _rambling_ as he blushes over the toast on the counter. He still hasn't even explained _why_ his plans changed. Which kind of sort of seems to imply that Lance decided to stay for _Keith's_ benefit.

Which is too much for either Keith's heart or head to handle at this moment.

Thankfully for both of them, the microwave chooses this moment to beep. "Oh look!" Lance says with far too much enthusiasm. "It's ready!"

He busies himself with the appliance, firmly keeping his attention everywhere except Keith.

Keith lets him. He's far too embarrassed to voice the thoughts swirling through his mind right now, anyways. Instead, he watches silently as Lance makes his way over to his chair.

"Okay, make sure you use the potholder, cause it's pretty hot," Lance warns. He takes the mug of tea from Keith's hands, then carefully places the bowl in his lap. The warmth instantly begins to seep through the blanket. Unable to resist, Keith holds one palm above the bowl to feel the satisfying steam curl around his fingers.

Lance sets the mug down on the coffee table in front of Keith's chair, along with the plate of toast. "Be sure to blow on it until it cools off," Lance tells him. "And let me know if you need anything else to drink. I can grab you a cup of water if you want. Is your blanket still good?"

Keith can't tell which is harder to suppress: his resurgent blush or the laughter threatening in his chest. Lance is acting like a fussy mother hen, and it's almost more than Keith can take.

He settles on a small shrug and a wave of his hand. "It's fine," he mumbles. "This is … great."

More than great, if he's being honest. Wonderful. Overwhelming. But now doesn't feel like the time to mention that, so Keith leaves it at that.

Lance gives Keith a stern once-over, hands finding their way to his slim hips yet again. "Well…" he says slowly, not sounding convinced, "if you need anything else, just be sure to ask."

He continues to glare until Keith ducks his head and mumbles, "Right, sure."

This seems to be a good enough answer for Lance. Keith watches from under his bangs as Lance heads back into the kitchen. He digs through his bags yet again, then pulls out a package of cup ramen. Keith blinks in surprise as Lance begins to rip the plastic wrap off.

"Lance, seriously," he says, guilt gnawing at the edges of his stomach. "I'm fine. Why don't you go get yourself a real dinner?"

"Nah." Lance shrugs as he washes out the other mug—the one Keith used to gargle—with soap and then fills it with water. "By the time I get over to the Union, they'll be closed anyway. They were already starting to close up shop when I stopped there on my way back from class. I think they've got shorter hours today because of the break."

Lance sets the mug in the microwave and gets it started, then turns back to Keith. "Besides, this is good enough for me." He gestures to the ramen and grins. "They had my favorite flavor."

Keith can't help the skeptical frown that tugs at his lips. "You have a favorite flavor?" he asks flatly. "Of ramen?" Personally, Keith has always chosen to stay away from the stuff after trying some at a friend's place back in high school. The food isn't particularly appealing—at least not the pre-packaged, poor college student kind.

"Uh, duh?" Lance asks, as if this is the most obvious thing in the world. "Everyone knows that the shrimp ramen is the best. It's even got mini shrimps in it!"

Keith's mouth opens in horror. "It has _what_?" he questions, glancing toward the foam cup. "But those things aren't refrigerated, right?"

Lance shrugs. "I mean, it's not _fresh_ shrimp. It's, like, freeze dried or something. Or dehydrated maybe?" Lance frowns and shakes his head in irritation. "Anyways, the details aren't important—all that matters is that it's delicious."

"That's disgusting," Keith replies, still not quite believing what he's hearing. People _eat_ that crap? And—if Lance is to be believed—somehow _enjoy_ it?

Lance seems unperturbed. "More for me, then," he sings. The microwave beeps, and he busies himself with pouring the water over the noodles. Then, retrieving his fork, Lance heads back over towards the lounge. He sets his ramen on the coffee table and plops into the armchair opposite Keith. "That should be good now," he says, gesturing towards Keith's lap.

Keith looks down at his bowl of soup. The amount of steam wafting from the surface has decreased significantly over the past few minutes. Tentatively, he lifts a spoonful to his lips and is pleased to find that the broth isn't too hot. He eats a few mouthfuls, glad to have yet another warm liquid making its way down his throat.

"How is it?" Lance asks.

"Salty as fuck," Keith replies frankly. This doesn't stop him from downing another spoonful of too-soggy noodles and briny broth, however.

Lance, to his surprise, merely laughs. "Yeah, it wouldn't be Campbells otherwise." He heaves a small shrug, as if to say _Whattya gonna do_. "But it'll make you feel better, at least."

And that's the thing, really. Keith _is_ starting to feel better. His headache is still ever-present, but it's been reduced to prowling around the outskirts of his head. He's starting to feel somewhat less stuffed up as all of this salt works its magic on his sinuses. And, perhaps most importantly of all, it no longer feels as if he has several knives shoved down his throat.

Part of Keith wants to be surprised by this realization, but a much bigger portion of him accepts this fact with very little resistance. As much as Lance's help had taken him off guard at first, Keith now fully trusts that Lance knows what he's doing. At least when it comes to cold remedies—Keith is staying far, far away from Lance's freeze dried, dehydrated, absolute shit shrimp.

For a while, the common room is filled with near silence, interrupted only by the scrape of Keith's spoon along the bottom of his bowl. But somehow it's … nice. They're not talking or anything, and Lance has even pulled out his phone to scroll through his texts, but something about the moment is comfortable. Keith savors the feeling, which is only amplified by the growing warmth in his stomach as he nears the end of his soup.

Lance huffs, and Keith catches sight of him rolling his eyes as he slides his phone into his pocket. He raises a questioning eyebrow at Lance. "What's up?"

"Nothing," Lance says with a little wave of his hand. He leans forward to grab his ramen off of the table. "Just Pidge."

This does little to explain the way that Lance isn't quite meeting Keith's eyes. But Lance is so focused on digging into his dinner that there isn't much room for Keith to press the matter.

Instead, Keith trades his empty bowl for the plate of toast on the table. By this point it is completely cold, the butter already beginning to thicken, but it'd be a waste not to eat it. Beside that, Keith figures it's better to eat as much as he can stomach now so he won't get hungry later.

As he munches, he steals a glance over his toast to watch as Lance eats his so-called food. Lance has somehow managed to keep all of the solid contents of the cup held back with his fork as he drinks the broth. Keith watches with part amusement, part exasperation as Lance drains the entire thing. He doesn't quite understand how Lance manages to keep the noodles from falling right onto his face.

Apparently satisfied that all the broth is gone, Lance proceeds to use the fork to literally _shovel_ the noodles, veggies, and not-quite-shrimp into his mouth. Keith can't help from snorting at the sheer ridiculousness of it.

"Wha mahn?" Lance asks, a bunch of noodles hanging from his mouth and down past his chin.

"Uh, hungry much?" Keith asks, shooting him a bemused smirk.

Lance merely flips him the bird before proceeding to shove another overflowing forkfull into his mouth. Still chewing, Lance adds, "I's bettah th's way."

This seems debatable. Keith can feel his eyebrows still stubbornly stuck near his hairline as he eats the last of his toast. He calmly ignores the withering glares Lance keeps shooting in his direction as he polishes off the ramen.

"Alright," Lance says once he's downed the last of the noodles. He stands up and stretches, nearly dropping his fork from the empty foam cup as he does. "You should be good to take some more Dayquil, now."

"Oh, yeah." In all honesty, Keith had completely forgotten about the medicine. As Lance gathers their dishes from the table, Keith adds, "It's still in my room."

Lance nods as he heads back into the kitchen. He dumps the foam cup into the trash, then unloads everything else into the sink.

Keith frowns as Lance walks back over, leaving the dirty dishes where they are. "Aren't you gonna wash those?" he asks, gesturing toward the sink.

"It's cool, it's cool," Lance says nonchalantly, slapping Keith on the back. Keith pins Lance with his flattest stare. "No one's here anyways, I'll just wash them tomorrow."

Keith isn't sure he would trust his dishes in the common kitchen, even with all but a handful of students left in the dorm including themselves. But these aren't _his_ dishes—they're Lance's—and so he lets it drop.

"Anyways, you should probably head back to your room now," Lance says, giving Keith a gentle nudge to get up from the chair.

"Oh…" Keith bites back a frown and forces himself to start moving. "Right."

As he stands, Keith does his best to ignore the disappointment seeping in through the cracks in his blanket. He had kind of been hoping, well, y'know, that Lance would want to hang out a bit longer or something. But maybe he misunderstood. Maybe Lance _isn't_ staying back because of Keith after all. Or maybe he just feels obligated to take care of his sick classmate. As little as twelve hours ago, Keith would have dismissed this possibility as laughable, but now … Well, Lance _does_ seem to have a strong sense of obligation when it comes to helping out people who aren't feeling well, if his story about his siblings is any indication. And it's kind of sweet—really, it is.

Just … Keith had sort of been hoping … y'know. That _maybe_ —

Keith pushes that thought away before it can complete itself in his mind. Instead, he wraps his comforter more tightly around his shoulders.

Lance picks up Keith's pillow from the chair and starts down the hall. It's totally petty, but Keith can't help but feel glad that Lance is at least going to walk back with him to his room. Keith falls into step beside him, wishing that each second could last an hour, instead of flying by as quickly as they currently are.

"So…" Lance says, breaking the silence and taking Keith a bit off guard. "I heard you're not going home over break?"

Keith shrugs, readjusting his grip on his blanket as he does. "Nah."

From the corner of his eye, Keith catches a frown twist at Lance's mouth. "That's kind of a bummer," Lance says. "That you can't visit with your family, I mean."

Yeah, a _real_ bummer. Keith's first reaction is to snort, though he manages to reign the reflex in. Instead, he forces another shrug. He struggles to think of something appropriate to say, but everything sounds too cynical in his head, so he just keeps his mouth shut.

Lance's frown deepens, and silence returns. Keith suddenly wonders if he fucked up. As far from _bummed_ as he is about staying at the dorms over break, maybe it would have been worth a bland lie. At least then he could have talked with Lance a little longer rather than scaring him off with this awkward silence. This is just great—he could kick himself.

Keith is still stewing as they reach the door to his and Hunk's room. He opens his mouth, ready to thank Lance— _not_ to stall—of course not—even if he _wants_ to—oh god, who is he kidding, he just wants to keep Lance here as long as humanly possible—what is _wrong_ with him—

But Lance beats him to the chase, quickly shoving Keith's pillow back into his arms. "You take this and wait here," Lance says with a surprising amount of determination. "I'll be right back."

And then he's off, striding down the hall and disappearing around the corner. Keith stares after him in confusion, still too taken off guard to completely understand what's going on.

He looks down at his pillow, then glances around the empty hallway. Lance had said to _wait here_ , but did he _actually_ mean to stay here waiting in the hallway?

 _Hell no_ , Keith thinks to himself. He shakes his head in irritation, reaching down to pull his keys out of his pocket. Even if he _did_ mean it that way, there is no way that Keith is going to stand around waiting in the middle of an empty hallway. Definitely not for Lance McClain. Grumbling to himself, Keith shoves the key into his lock and heads inside to take another dose of the cold medicine.

…

Lance stalks down the hallway, his entire face furrowed into a stern frown. He would be crossing his arms right now if they weren't otherwise occupied by his laptop, blanket, and pillow.

Because seriously? What. The. Hell. _What the hell?_

Keith is _actually_ planning to just sit alone in his dorm all break long, as if that is a perfectly normal thing. As if he isn't _sick_.

Lance can already tell how well that would have gone over—that is, _not well at all_. As smart as the guy is—because, though Lance hates to admit it, the truth is that Keith runs circles around him in their Physics class—apparently Keith is utterly _hopeless_. What would he have done for food over break? Even with a dose of Dayquil in him, Keith still barely looks able to walk between his dorm room and the kitchen. And with the Union being closed, he would have had to trek three blocks just to get to CVS in order to grab some cold medicine. Three blocks in the _cold, rainy, blustery_ autumn weather. While he's sick.

The thought is so ludicrous that Lance huffs a bitter, incredulous laugh.

And _then_ , as if that's not enough, there was that silence when Lance had asked about Keith's family…. It leaves an uneasy feeling roiling in Lance's gut.

So, that settles it. There is no way in _hell_ that Lance is going to let Keith spend his Thanksgiving break all alone. Which is totally, one hundred percent because Lance is such a good person and _not at all_ because of his own selfish reasons.

Besides, Lance tells himself. He can still go home on Thursday for Thanksgiving dinner if he wants. And then he can come back the next day to make sure that Keith doesn't do anything more to kill himself via illness for the remainder of break. That's reasonable, isn't it? Something any friend would do, right? For another friend? Right?

His frown has worked itself into an outright scowl by the time Lance reaches Keith's door.

He tries the handle and is a little surprised to find it unlocked. Even with his overflowing arms, Lance is able to open the handle with an awkward twist of his wrist. He uses his hip to push it the rest of the way open, then kicks it closed with his foot.

Keith looks up from his spot on his bed, still wrapped snugly in his blanket, and Lance struggles to push away the thrill that runs clear through his middle. Why does Keith look so ridiculously cute like this, with his cheeks slightly pink from the fever and his face half-buried in his comforter? It makes it stupid-difficult for Lance to concentrate.

But then Keith gives Lance a good once over, and suddenly Lance is nervous. Now that he thinks about it, he never actually, y'know, _asked_ if Keith wanted him to stay over break. Maybe he'll think that Lance is being weird? Or maybe he just _likes_ being all alone? Or maybe, worst of all, he just doesn't want to spend time with _Lance_.

But, well, on the other hand… Lance has the feeling that Keith is the type of person who wouldn't speak up and just _ask_ someone to stay with him, even if he wanted them to. No, he would definitely be the type to suffer in silence—y'know, _exactly like he tried to do this very morning when he was sick_. And Lance will be damned if he lets that happen.

Because they're friends, of course.

So, ignoring Keith's surprised look, Lance strides over to Keith's bed and, with a jerk of his head, demands, "Scoot over."

Keith _doesn't_ make room, and instead only watches Lance with a growing look of shock. Which is unfortunate, because Lance is already halfway through the motion of sitting on Keith's bed. Or what little space of Keith's bed that he can fit his ass onto while the big lump _just sits there_.

"Uh."

The slight fever flush is now creeping from Keith's face and down onto neck, which _should_ , in theory, be a big enough hint for Lance to pick up on. _Should_ , but Lance simply nudges Keith's shoulder with his own and says, "C'mon, move over."

Keith coughs, still not moving even as Lance leans against him with even more pressure. "Are you… Are you wearing _PJs_?"

"Uh, yeah?" Lance replies, attempting to wiggle into a slightly more comfortable position. He spares a quick glance down to his loose PJ shorts and old swim team T-shirt and shrugs. "We're the only two people on this goddamn floor—practically the entire dorm—and I wanna do something, but you're sick, so it's gonna have to be a night in."

Keith splutters—like, actually fucking _splutters_ , what the hell?—as his face deepens another shade. "And you're intending to just _sleep here_?" Keith manages to ask. "In my bed?"

Oh. Oh shit. He hadn't—

"What?" Lance practically squawks, his own cheeks suddenly feeling hot. _Bad. This is Bad. This is so so sososo Bad_. Lance struggles to quickly reign it in. He takes a deep breath, then knocks Keith's shoulder with his own and laughs. "Oh c'mon, don't be such a big baby. I'm gonna sleep in Hunk's bed, duh."

Somehow, miraculously, the words come out sounding light-hearted and airy—like a joke. Somehow. Because internally, Lance is pretty fucking close to keeling over. _Oh lord_ —he hadn't even thought about—he hadn't considered—he didn't mean to imply that they should _sleep together_.

He tries to take a few more inconspicuous, deep breaths. There is _no way_ he is going to let his heart rip itself right out of his fucking chest. Don't make it weird— _don't make it weird!_ Not that, y'know, it _would_ necessarily be weird. He definitely wouldn't be opposed to sleeping with Keith. But—! Because, like, it was fine, right? It would be no big deal, right? He had passed out in Hunk's bed enough times—but if Keith—if he didn't—if he wasn't okay with that—then _of course_ Lance wouldn't try to force him—!

Oh Jesus fucking Christ, he needs help _bad_.

Trying to force his thoughts away from anything that might spark instantaneous combustion, Lance busies himself with setting up his laptop. He doesn't _ignore_ Keith as he pushes the power button, per se. He just, y'know, conveniently shifts to focusing his attention to detangling the ball that his power cord has somehow worked itself into. And tries not to pay any mind to the very calm, _not_ awkward silence that fills the room. Key word: tries.

Dammit, seriously? Not even two minutes in and he's already fucked up.

Lance nearly heaves a relieved sigh as he finally loosens the last knot. He plugs one end into the computer, then leans over Keith toward the wall, where he can see the plastic edge of an outlet. It's a slightly further reach than he originally assumed, and Lance is forced to use one hand to steady himself as he plugs the other end of the cord into the wall.

He's just about to push himself up when it occurs to him how ridiculously stiff Keith has gone. He can tell, because he's leaning over Keith's legs. On Keith's bed. And—

"OOOOO-KAY!" Lance announces loudly, quickly sitting back up so he's not practically _plastered_ over Keith's lap. Holy fucking lord, how did he not notice that until just now? What is _wrong with him_!? "Let's get started!" His laugh is _totally_ not forced.

Keith doesn't reply, but his shoulders _do_ seem to relax somewhat, which Lance takes as a good sign. He wiggles down so that he can lie back onto his pillow, shifting his comforter as he tries to get comfortable with the small amount of space Keith has left him on the single.

After readjusting his laptop so the screen is angled properly, Lance looks over, only to realize that Keith is still sitting upright. He's watching Lance with his brows furrowed in a rather confused look, and Lance's stomach sinks. He tries to push away any of his uncertainty, however, and pats Keith's pillow beside his head. "C'mon, just lie down, would you?" he asks with a small chuckle.

For a terrifying moment, Keith simply continues to stare at Lance, seeming utterly dumbfounded. _Oh god, he isn't going to, is he? This the part where he kicks me out and never talks to me again, isn't it?_

"I'm sick," Keith says.

Lance snorts. "No shit, Sherlock. I _did_ bring you Dayquil earlier, y'know."

"No, I mean…" Keith's frown grows, and he grumbles, "Aren't you worried you'll get sick too?"

That is… surprisingly considerate, seeing as this is _Keith_. And also fucking adorable. Which is a terrible combination that seems hell bent on giving Lance a heart attack.

But it is also totally fucking ridiculous—so much so that Lance can't help but roll his eyes. "Dude, I've taken care of kids who were way worse and way more contagious. My immune system is, like, on steroids or something." Then, grinning and giving Keith's pillow another pat, he adds, "Now seriously, lie down, I want to get started."

Keith huffs grumpily—not adorable, Lance tells himself, _so_ not adorable—and looks away. Lance is just about to open his mouth and argue the point further when Keith finally shifts, unwinding the comforter from his shoulders and wriggling down to lie next to Lance. Lance _almost_ feels bad for forcing Keith. Almost. But on the other hand, Keith has a stubborn, not-quite-pouting frown on his face the entire time, and Lance _kind of maybe_ —okay, scratch that, _totally_ —has the urge to flick Keith in the head for being so difficult, sick or no. But on the _other_ hand, _holy fucking shit_. He is lying next to Keith. In Keith's bed. In Keith's room. All alone. In a nearly empty dorm.

If Lance somehow manages to survive this night, it will be a fucking miracle.

Thankfully, his computer has now fully booted up. Lance pulls up Lifetime and clicks on the video.

Keith snorts. "Project Runway? Seriously?"

Lance shoots a flat look at Keith. "Uh, yeah? Tim Gunn is amazing. Besides, because of classes I haven't caught _any_ of this season's episodes yet."

"Dude, that's—"

Lance silences Keith by blindly reaching a finger in the general direction of his mouth. "Shh, shh! It's starting!"

Keith sighs, but surprisingly doesn't argue further. Lance takes that as a victory. He settles further down under his blanket and intently watches as this season's contestants are introduced. It's always the most difficult part of each new season—Lance tries so hard to ingrain everyone's names and faces into his head, but it usually takes him until sometime in the second or third episode to finally get them all down.

"Ugh," Keith says, rolling his eyes at one of the guys on screen. "Man bun."

Lance can't help the flat stare he gives Keith in return. "Dude. _Dude_. You have a fucking _mullet_."

"There's nothing wrong with my hair," Keith snaps back. Nonetheless, Lance doesn't miss the way Keith runs a self-conscious hand through his bangs. Goddamn, why does his hair look so ridiculously silky? _Fucking mullets_ should not be _fucking attractive_. This man is ruining him.

Five minutes in, as the contestants are running around and ruthlessly trashing the room for outfit materials, Keith groans. "Seriously, Lance. What next? Please don't tell me you avidly follow Toddlers and Tiaras or something."

Lance scoffs. "Excuse me? I do have standards, y'know. I have two little sisters—there's no way in hell I'd support a show that's so degrading to little girls."

"Oh."

Lance waits a moment to see if Keith has anything further to add, but his response seems to have taken Keith off guard. Really? _Toddlers and Tiaras_? Can't Keith give him a little credit?

Lance feels the bed dip as Keith shifts slightly. "Seriously, though," Keith mumbles finally. "I don't understand why you even like this show. You're probably one of the least fashionable people I've ever met."

Lance gasps loudly, clutching a hand to his chest. "Ouch, man. We can't _all_ have some natural, innate sense of fashion like you."

Keith freezes, and a beat of silence echoes through the room. Oh god, did he really just—? Keith slowly looks over at Lance with the wickedest grin Lance has ever seen, and Lance knows he's screwed. Yes, apparently. Yes he did.

"So, you think I have good fashion sense?" Keith asks. The bastard looks far too smug.

But the thing is: uh, hell yes? Somehow, no matter what he wears, Keith always manages to look fucking amazing. Like any second he's expecting to be grabbed off the street and whisked away to a photoshoot. It's more than a little infuriating, especially because most days Lance is just happy if the color of his shirt doesn't clash with his pants. He has a tendency to just throw on the first thing he finds that looks comfortable enough.

Feeling a very unwelcome blush work its way onto his cheeks, Lance rolls his eyes and quips, "It doesn't take an idiot to see that you put way too much effort into your clothes everyday."

Keith chuckles, still sounding far too satisfied with himself. Biting down a grin, Lance bumps his shoulder, then turns back to the screen.

After a while, Lance feels the telltale shifting of the mattress yet again. "Do you want some popcorn or something?" Keith asks, sounding a touch awkward. "I think Hunk picked up a box last time he was at the store."

"Dude, _yes_." Lance shoves the computer off of his legs and onto Keith's lap. "Here, you hold this. Where's it at?"

Keith grimaces as he struggles not to drop the computer. "It should be right next to the microwave."

"Oh, found it!" Lance grabs a package out from the box, silently thanking Hunk for his beautiful foresight and promising to replace his stash. Probably. If he remembers to.

He throws the bag into Hunk's small microwave and then walks back over to glance at the screen. One of the contestants is helping calm down a few of the others, doling out positive feedback and support.

"He's being surprisingly helpful," Keith says, frowning at the screen. "I thought this was a competition."

"It is," Lance says with a shrug. "But you can't make enemies of the people there—nobody likes a dick." Lance watches as the guy reassures one of the girls about her choice in material. "I really like this guy—already a fav. What's his name, Alex?"

"Uh, I think so?" Keith replies.

"Oh, oh! And here comes Tim with his first critique!"

Keith laughs, giving Lance a side eye. "You are _way_ to into this."

"It's _good_ ," Lance argues. He hears the popcorn start to pop behind him. "Just watch. Tim is amazing."

He gestures to the screen, where one of the contestants is getting feedback. Lance scoffs as the guy digs in his heels and completely rebukes all of Tim's advice. "Oh god, he's going to get fucking _slayed_. Not taking Tim's advice? I'm calling it right now: he's going to be first out."

As Keith rolls his eyes, the microwave beeps. "Yeah, sure, just go grab the popcorn."

"Shh, shh, in a minute," Lance says, waving Keith off. "I want to see the rest of these critiques."

The show cuts to commercial break, and Keith groans. "There, see? It's a break. Just go get the popcorn."

"What?" Lance whines, watching a commercial for the new Corolla. "But this is Lifetime—there are _barely_ any commercials. I'm gonna miss something."

"Well then I guess you'd better be quick," Keith quips back. "Seriously, it's all of five steps away. Just grab the fucking bag."

"Fine, fine," Lance wails. He pushes himself dramatically away from the bed, hand thrown carelessly over his brow. "I will make this sacrifice… for the popcorn…"

"I swear to god, I will throw your pillow—"

Lance yelps and hurries to the microwave. "No, no, no need! I got it! Jeez…"

He grabs the steaming bag carefully by one of the corners and hurries back over to the bed. "Now budge over, I need to see the rest of the critiques."

Lance opens up the bag and grabs a handful, wincing as the too-hot bag brushes against his knuckles. Then he holds the bag out to Keith and takes the computer back from Keith's lap, situating it back on his own.

"That is a lot of yellow," Keith says, giving the girl on the screen a skeptical look.

"No kidding," Lance replies. He munches on his handful of popcorn. "And Tim's right—she's barely got anything done."

"She seems kinda…" Keith trails off, apparently searching for the best word to describe the eclectic girl on screen. "... something."

Lance laughs. "Yeah. She's pretty carefree, considering how behind she is. I dunno, I think we've got another bust here."

Keith hands the bag of popcorn back to him, and Lance takes another handful.

"Wow, wait," Keith says. Lance glances over to see Keith frowning yet again. "Alex is just dropping everything he's doing and giving this guy a pep talk?"

"I guess so…" Lance replies. Alex is now listening to the other's guy's doubts and assuring him to just be himself. "Jeez, man. How is this guy so sweet? I think I'm in love."

Keith chuckles, grabbing the popcorn back. "Really? I didn't take you for a piercings type of guy."

"Are you kidding me?" Lance asks, gesturing to the cutie on the screen. "I think they can be pretty freaking hot. Or just outright beautiful. Look at that gorgeous septum ring Dexter has."

Keith hums thoughtfully. After a moment, he says, "Y'know, I've always thought it'd be kind of cool to get a septum ring."

Lance chokes on the popcorn in his mouth. Which is actually _really_ fucking painful. "Wait, wait…" he says, swallowing roughly to try to stop the watering in his eyes. "Really?"

Keith shrugs. "Yeah. Nothing big or anything. But some of the smaller ones look really nice."

Oh holy mother of fuck. Lance does _not_ need this in his life right now. Thoughts of Keith with septum rings are flooding his mind completely unbidden, and it's enough to make Lance's head feel ready to explode. Because, _fuck_. Keith would probably look so good. He's got the right sort of style to pull off some of the more elegant rings.

"What?" Keith asks flatly.

Lance winces. "Nothing. You just surprised me, that's all." _Don't think about it…. Don't._ Lance makes face. "Like you said—I just never really took you as a piercings kind of guy."

They fall into silence again—not quite as awkward as earlier perhaps, but far more plagued with unwanted thoughts of Keith's ridiculously beautiful face. It's more and more easily broken, however, as the show goes on:

"What the heck," Lance groans. He slaps a hand over his eyes. "Erin, c'mon! She's totally not gonna make it, is she? She's barely gotten anything made still."

"I don't get it," Keith says. "There's just so many gumballs. _Why_?"

"That one." Lance points at the screen. "The paper lanterns—that is _gorgeous_."

Keith winces at a particularly mean comment. "Wow. Alex doesn't like that dress, huh?"

"Did you see how many feathers came off of the coat?" Lance asks, shaking his head. "How is she not sneezing?"

To Lance's immense relief, Keith seems to be getting more into it as the show goes on. When the contestants line up and get ready to leave for the runway, he even gasps. "Holy crap," Keith mutters. "I can't believe she got it ready in time."

Lance nods, glancing appreciatively at the absurdly yellow, but also shockingly awesome outfit that she's managed to create. "I'm so surprised. But it looks amazing."

They watch with bated breath as the models strut down the runway and the judges make their decisions. When six of the contestants are called forward, Keith frowns.

"Wait, are these the bottom outfits?" he asks, looking concerned. Lance doesn't blame him—Erin's awesome, yellow design has been called out, and it's far from the bottom of the list.

"No, they specifically critique the best and the worst of the bunch," Lance explains. "So everyone here is either really great or really not." He can't help a small ounce of smug pride to see that Ian—the guy who ignored Tim's advice—has been called. The guy totally had it coming.

Not surprisingly, the yellow outfit is a hit, and Ian's is a bomb. Lance watches with barely contained horror as Ian argues with the judges about why his dress is fine as it is.

"Dude!" He takes a kernel and chucks it at Ian's face on the screen. "Just shut up and listen to them!"

"Did you… just throw popcorn at him?" Keith asks.

"Yes," Lance replies. "Yes I did. He totally deserved it." He chucks another kernel at the guy for good measure.

"Uh, could you not?" Keith says, making a face as he picks up the discarded kernels. "You're gonna make a mess of my bed."

"Sure, sure," Lance says with a shrug. "Oh, look, they're doing the lantern one now."

Two of the judges rip the dress to shreds with their critiques, and Lance gasps. "What the hell, Nina! Are you blind?" A piece of popcorn hits her shoulder before the shot changes.

Keith groans. "Lance, _popcorn_."

They finish the episode, and Lance is silently thrilled to see Keith so excited with Erin's win. "That's pretty incredible," Keith admits. "I totally didn't think she could pull it off, and instead she won the whole thing."

"Right?" Lance asks. He pops a kernel into his mouth as Heidi announces that Ian lost this round. "Ha! I totally called it."

As the credits roll, Lance shoots Keith a sly side eye. "So…" he says slowly, popping a grin. "Wanna watch another one?"

Keith rolls his eyes and shrugs. "Sure, why not. But you've gotta make another bag of popcorn."

And somehow, they spend the rest of the evening just like that: eating popcorn, bumping knees, and binging Project Runway. Somewhere in the middle of the second episode, Keith gives up his crusade to stop Lance from chucking popcorn—which is a totally smart decision, since it's a hopeless cause. Keith starts commenting more and more on the outfits, and surprisingly—or, Lance supposes, not so surprisingly—has some really great insight into the designs and styles of each of the designers. By the third episode, Keith is actually _invested_ in the contestants, and starts arguing with the judges when they choose an emoji-style dress as one of their favorites. Lance loses track of how many bags of popcorn they go through.

The fourth episode is a swimsuit challenge, which Lance is one hundred percent enjoying. There's nothing quite like watching a group of gorgeous models strut around in swimwear. The choice for winner comes down to the wire, with a close battle between cutie-pie Alex's design and a strong contender from another designer.

"Rik's definitely going to win this one," Keith says firmly.

Lance scoffs. "Excuse me? _Excuse me_? Have we been watching the same show? Alex's will win."

Keith rolls his eyes. "I mean, Alex has a great design. But it's not as sexy and bold as Rik's."

"But Alex's design is closely based on Heidi's dossier _and_ looks fucking fabulous," Lance argues. "He's a shoo in."

"Yeah, and his cover up is just a frilly dress," Keith points out, so calmly that it makes Lance want to tear his hair out. "Rik's pants design is really clever, and—"

He's cut off abruptly as Lance throws a kernel at his face.

"Dude, what the fuck!?" Keith yelps, wiping his cheek where the popcorn landed.

"Alex is gonna win," Lance says simply, _tsk_ ing with his tongue. "Duh."

"Don't throw fucking popcorn at me," Keith replies. "How many times do I have to tell you, you're making a mess of my—"

This time, Lance throws three kernels in Keith's face. Keith sputters angrily, shooting Lance a death glare—which surprisingly leaves Lance's blood beginning to simmer in an entirely different way. Then, with a growl, Keith swipes a hand over the popcorn-strewn bedspread and flings a handful of kernels at Lance's face.

"Oooooh," Lance crows. "It. Is. _On_."

He quickly grabs the bag and shoves his hand in, then pelts the entire handful at Keith.

"Alex!" he shouts insistently.

"I'm telling you—Rik!" Keith yells back, whipping more gathered kernels across the bed.

"Alex!" Lance insists. He chucks a handful, then gasps as Keith attempts to grab the bag from his grip. "No you don't!"

Keith gives the bag an insistent tug and somehow manages to pry it away from Lance. "Ha!" he says triumphantly. To celebrate, Keith shoves his hand in and bombards Lance with not one, not two, but _three_ handfuls of the stuff as he grits out, "It'll. Be. _Rik_."

Suddenly, on the screen, they hear Heidi proclaim, "Whoever wins this round will be granted immunity in the next challenge."

Keith and Lance both stop short, suddenly whipping their attention back to the laptop, lying abandoned on the covers.

There's a long, unnecessarily dramatic pause, and then…

"Rik… you are the winner."

"No!" Lance howls, burying his face in his hands. "What the hell!? Don't they have eyes!?"

"Yes!" Keith hisses, making a triumphant fist. "Rik's is the best."

"Ugh, whatever," Lance groans grumpily. He drags the computer back onto his lap and lies back down, refusing to look at Keith, who is still grinning smugly. "Let's just see who's cut." When Keith chuckles with far too much self-satisfaction, Lance gives him an elbow to the side.

" _Ow_ ," Keith gripes, rubbing his side. "You know, you're a really sore loser."

"Yeah, yeah, so Hunk always tells me." Lance rolls his eyes. "What do you say, one more episode?"

"Sure."

Keith snuggles down under his comforter, his hair tickling Lance's cheek as he does. And for a moment, Lance can't help but marvel at the current situation. He's pressed from shoulder to hip to knee against Keith, arguing about and enjoying one of his favorite shows and eating sickening amounts of popcorn. He feels a bit warm and fuzzy inside, which he _tries_ —and utterly fails—to convince himself is solely due to his comfy blanket. Lance chances a glance at Keith to find the other boy smiling faintly as the next episode starts, watching with keen interest to find out what the new challenge will be.

It's funny, and Lance knows that he probably should feel ashamed for thinking so. But he's actually almost glad that Keith woke up sick this morning. Not because the guy felt so awful, obviously, but because Lance is getting to learn so much more about him in one day than he has in the ten weeks he's spent with Keith in class. For as much as they tend to argue in class, Lance is surprised to find that Keith is actually rather, well, _easy_ to get along with now that he's not struggling to complete classwork with the guy. Which isn't helping this whole crush thing in any capacity.

"Oh damn," Keith says, yanking Lance's attention back to the screen. "Team projects? That sounds like… hell."

Lance chuckles. "Yeah, this'll probably be a good one." Grinning, Lance fixes his blanket and settles back, using the movement to inch imperceptibly closer to Keith.

Maybe, just maybe, missing Thanksgiving would be worth it for _this_.

* * *

 **A/N:** This all started more than a month ago when I randomly thought to myself, "Lance, for all his complaining, is probably a good older brother who knows all sorts of things about taking care of sick younger siblings. Wouldn't it be cute if he took care of Keith?" And it was basically all downhill from there.

Once I had the idea for this story, it quickly took over my life and basically all other projects I was working on screeched to a standstill while I vomited the plot summary for this into a word document. I didn't know where I wanted to go with it, so I just kept writing until I ran out of ideas… only to realize that I had so many ideas that there was no end in sight xD

For anyone wondering, there WILL be more. I'm not 100% sure how many chapters there will be, but I'll for sure being doing a chapter each for Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, as well as at least one chapter to cover Saturday and Sunday—although it's possible they might get their own chapters as well depending on how this goes. As for when I'll be able to update… as soon as I can, but Chapter 2 will likely be even longer than the first, so it will take a while to write.

As if a massive fic weren't enough, I wound up making a MASSIVE playlist for this story. I wanted songs that match how I usually feel when I'm sick: slower, mellow, slightly hazy songs, some of which are a bit somber, and some that are happier or upbeat. Somehow it became a 136 song beast? The Goo Goo Dolls, Twenty One Pilots, Dave Matthews, Regina Spektor, The Killers, George Ezra, Silversun Pickups, Coldplay, and Death Cab for Cutie all have a number of songs on it, along with a shit ton of other artists. Anyways, you can check it out over on YouTube if you'd like (/watch?v=WFDGg6q_4g8&list=PL5ar6h1LS4nCrYUwOT5sJgyqUr1ggVown)

Originally I was going to have Hunk and Lance be roommates, but then I considered Pidge and Lance rooming and just YES!? Hunk and Lance's friendship is one of my favorite aspects of the show, but ughghghgh, Pidge and Lance sassing at each other just gives me so much life. Buuuut, I couldn't see Pidge and Lance choosing to room together sophomore year (which was the year I wanted to set this fic, originally), so I decided to make this freshman year instead with random roommate assignments.

I hadn't actually had Dayquil before writing this story. But I wanted to describe it, and my dad happened to pick some up for my sister, who had a cold, so I totally filched a tiny bit to try. All the other remedies and habits, however, come from my mother. I've found that I use them on friends without a second thought, even though some of them tend to be rather intimate (like brushing away someone's bangs).

I've never actively watched Project Runway before this. But I decided that Lance should be a total junky for a reality TV show, and this was the one I settled on (mainly because for some reason I could see Lance completely idolizing Tim Gunn? Hahaha, it just seemed to fit). And, in the process of plotting and then writing this fic, enough episodes from this season accumulated for me to write about in the first chapter. So I binged this season's episodes this week so I could incorporate them x)

Oh, and I looked it up. The shrimp in Maruchan's cup ramen is freeze-dried. Go figure. (Shrimp flavor is the best flavor, fight me.)

Thank you so much for reading! I really hope you're enjoying it so far ^^ And again, happy belated birthday, Liv! Thanks for being so patient with me ;~; And also for putting up with all my rambling!

If you wanna come scream with me about this lovely space crew (or any multitude of other fandoms), feel free to join me on Tumblr (Konekat)!


	2. Wednesday

**A/N:** Y'all… the amount of love you have given this fic has been absolutely overwhelming. I can't put into words how happy I am to hear that so many people are enjoying this story. Thank you so, so much!

Also, I had asked the amazingly talented gumisae if they would be willing to make cover art for this story. They'll be working on a full blown cover sometime soon, but Gumi wound up drawing some absolutely stunning pictures from the first chapter, too ;v; I may or may not have screamed out loud… (Spoiler alert: I totally did.) You can check it out on my tumblr (konekat) at (post/152421828124/)

Just saying, the anthem for this fic has become Hailee Steinfeld's "Starving." I've just been listening to it on repeat for forever now. Highly recommend as reading music for this chapter.

I'm sorry it took me so long to write up this chapter. (Then again… remember when I said it would probably be 20k words? Ahaha… ha… Look at this 30k word behemoth ;A; ) I was DEAD SET on getting this chapter up by the time the second season dropped. Somehow, I managed to get it done. I hope it's worth the wait!

* * *

 **Wednesday**

Keith's first thought upon waking up is that he _still_ feels congested, even after a solid night's sleep. That said, he's not feeling _quite_ as bad as yesterday, and his headache seems to have leveled off at a quiet throb.

His second thought is that his blankets feel much warmer than usual. He's just deciding that maybe his fever hasn't quite gone away when a rustling noise startles him into opening his eyes—

And he finds himself face to face with Lance, who is peacefully drooling on—thankfully his own—pillow.

 _Holy shit—_

Keith's heart leaps into his throat, and he quickly wriggles away, only to feel the wall press against his back. Did they _fall asleep together_ last night? On his bed? Together?

In his very surprised, still very sleep-muddled mind, only one thought is currently processing: what the _fuck_ should he do?

This question is answered for him rather abruptly. Or, more accurately, the question becomes moot. He doesn't have _time_ to do anything, because Keith's sudden bout of thrashing was apparently enough to wake Lance, who is now yawning and blinking his eyes open.

In this grave time of need, Keith's stupid, _stupid_ brain decides that the most important detail to focus on is the utterly adorable way Lance's hair is sticking up in a cow lick on the side of his head. The short brown hairs form a prickly wave, and in a moment of absurd clarity, Keith realizes that he wants nothing more than to run his fingers through Lance's hair to smooth it down. Keith stubbornly keeps his twitching fingers glued to his side, as far from Lance's head as possible.

Slowly, Lance's eyes begin to focus, and for the first time Keith notices that they are a stunning shade of blue, so dark that until now he had always mistaken them for brown. Keith can't look away as those very same sapphire eyes suddenly widen to an almost comical size.

Lance sits up abruptly, wiping furiously at the drool still clinging to the side of his mouth. "Oh jeez," he breathes, sounding a charming mix of sleepy and startled, "I'm so sorry, I fell asleep without even thinking."

That seals the deal. There is no pretending otherwise—Lance spent the entire night cuddling in Keith's bed. Keith is beginning to worry that his cheeks are now stained permanently pink.

"It's—"

Overwhelming. Incomprehensible. Simultaneously the greatest and most awful thing to ever happen in Keith's sad, short existence.

"—it's no big deal," Keith manages to say lamely. He even throws in a deceptively dismissive wave of his hand as he sits up, just to emphasize how _not_ big of a deal it is.

And really, it _shouldn't_ be any kind of deal at all. If it had been Hunk, Keith wouldn't have even given it a second thought. After all, all they had done was pass out while watching TV together. It's about as straightforward and non-suggestive as an evening between friends can get.

It really, really _shouldn't_ matter. Except it does. Because he _spent the night sleeping next to Lance_.

Somehow, Lance's world doesn't seem to be crumbling away beneath his feet. Keith isn't sure whether he should feel relieved or reproachful. Instead, Lance shifts so that his legs are hanging over the edge of the bed with his back toward Keith, yawning as he rubs the sleep from his eyes. Keith does his best to follow Lance's unruffled example, quietly sucking in slow, deep breaths to calm himself down and brushing distractedly at the popcorn kernels that _still_ litter his sheets.

After a moment, Lance reaches down to the foot of the bed and drags his laptop onto his lap. "Ugh, I can't even remember when I passed out," he says. He swipes his fingers over the touchpad, bringing the screen back to life. "What's the last thing you remember seeing?"

Keith presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, attempting to force his mind to _focus_. "Uh…" Keith says, struggling to think back. "Didn't they form groups?"

"Oh, yeah!" Lance replies excitedly. He's got the webpage pulled back up, right where they had left it last night. "It looks like the episode ended, though. Did you wind up watching the whole thing? I can't remember what happened after they picked teams."

Keith shakes his head. "No, I really don't remember much." Keith can't even remember closing his eyes.

There's a wet feeling against his upper lip as his nose slowly begins to drip. Keith bites back an irritated groan and reaches across the mattress to grab some tissues from the night stand. Having a stuffy nose is always annoying, but Keith absolutely cannot _stand_ when the snot gets to the point of overflowing. He blows forcefully, his irritation only ratcheting up another notch when his clogged nostrils refuse to clear up more than a smidge.

His eyes are watering by the time he finishes and tosses the nasty—and disappointingly half-filled—tissues at the nearby trash. He settles back onto the bed, only to find Lance watching him with a slight frown.

"How are you feeling?" Lance asks. He closes his laptop and sets it aside.

Keith shrugs uncomfortably. "Fine, I guess," he answers, not entirely truthfully. He still feels pretty crappy, but he really is _fine_. It's not like he's moments away from keeling over or anything.

Lance's frown deepens, the corners of his mouth dipping low as he leans in close. The next second his hand is pressed gently against Keith's forehead, and it takes all of Keith's willpower to rein back the whimper threatening to slip past his lips. Lance's hand isn't quite as cool as yesterday, still slightly warm from a morning spent under the covers, but its temperature is softer than the heat rippling just under Keith's skin.

Lance brushes his hand across Keith's forehead, sweeping his bangs to the side, and then leans down and presses a light kiss to Keith's brow.

The world comes to a stumbling, screeching stop.

Lance is kissing his head. _Lance is_ kissing _him_.

Lance seems to have realized this fact as well. He freezes, his lips still burning against Keith's skin as he remains leaning across the bed. Keith has a stunningly intimate view of Lance's chest, now only inches away from his face. Lance's loose t-shirt gaps to reveal the smooth expanse of skin halfway down his torso, which has gone completely still.

Keith blinks once, then again. Rational thought is rendered completely impossible by the earth-shattering, unending screams ricocheting through his mind.

Thankfully, Lance finally works up enough brain power to yank himself away, a horrified look of pure embarrassment plastered on his face. "Ohmigod," he says hoarsely, cheeks flushing a delightful shade of pink. "Oh my god, oh my _god_ , I'm so sorry, it's just a habit, that's how my mom always used to check our temperatures, I've done it to my siblings more times than I can count, I wasn't even thinking—"

He's rambling. The words are coming out at lightning speed, accompanied by a forced, awkward laugh, and he is _rambling_. If Keith hadn't witnessed a similar display yesterday, he wouldn't quite be able to believe that any of this is real. As it is, he's still struggling.

"It's cool," Keith says, cutting Lance off with an awkward cough.

It's not. It's the furthest thing from _cool_. Not when Keith's insides have been reduced to molten lava.

"Oh," Lance replies, looking completely taken off guard. He laughs again, a quivering thing that sounds almost painful. "Oh, well, good. Great."

Out of nowhere Lance pushes himself off of the bed and stands up. Keith watches in surprise as Lance grabs the bottle of Dayquil from the nightstand and turns back to face him.

"You still feel warm, so take this," he orders brusquely, shoving the bottle into Keith's lap. "I'm gonna go take a shower."

And then he is _gone_ , stalking from the room so quickly that he doesn't even bother to grab his stuff.

For a moment, Keith is too dumbfounded to do anything. He stares at the door, wondering when the world will decide to make sense again.

A raging flame is still searing the skin of his forehead.

With a groan, Keith flops back down onto his pillow. He presses his hands to his face, willing the persistent flush to go away. _Oh. My. God._ This is too much. He can't handle this. His heart is going to give out at any moment.

After a few deep breaths, his pulse slowly begins to settle. A sigh works its way out of his chest, and Keith drops his arms back to his sides. He rolls over, only to come face to face with Lance's pillow.

Immediately the flush returns to his cheeks. _How old are you, Keith Kogane?_ he asks himself resentfully. _Ten?_

The self-loathing, however, isn't enough to curb his rising ball of giddy nerves. He throws a guilty look at the door—just in case Lance decides now would be the perfect time to remember his things. Then, certain the coast is clear, Keith rolls over and buries his face into the navy blue cloth of Lance's pillow case.

A small touch of Lance's warmth lingers in the material, caressing Keith's face in an oddly reassuring way. Even with his stuffed nose, Keith catches a whiff of the vague remnants of an airy, citrusy scent. It must be Lance's shampoo, Keith thinks, his toes curling. Somehow it fits Lance perfectly.

He would be content just to spend the entire day lying here, his face pressed into a pillow. This realization is enough to startle Keith into sitting up, shoving away the regret that aches in his chest.

 _Y'know what?_ he thinks, looking anywhere but the pillow, _a shower sounds like a good idea right about now._

As he stands up, the bottle of Dayquil and a scattering of popcorn fall to the ground. "Oh, right," he mumbles, bending to pick up the bottle. He should probably take some of this first. Maybe it will force his overly-active head to chill the fuck out.

He quickly downs a dose, then sets about gathering his things: his basket with his shampoo and body wash, a drawstring bag with a towel and washcloth, and another bag with his toothbrush and paste and clothes to change into. He checks over everything twice, stubbornly keeping his gaze away from his bed. Then, satisfied that he hasn't forgotten anything, he locks his door and heads down the hall.

The bathroom is annoyingly far from Keith and Hunk's room, situated on the other end of the building, much closer to Lance and Pidge's hallway. Keith learned rather early in the semester that forgetting something simple—like soap—means spending far too much time trekking back and forth across the dorm to retrieve it.

Keith stops short a few steps from the bathroom door. Faintly, he can hear the shower running, accompanied by the muted sound of Lance singing. Keith groans.

"Seriously?" he mutters to himself, shifting his basket into his left hand. "Seriously? Why am I not surprised?" He rolls his eyes as he opens the door.

And then stops short again after just a few steps.

Somewhere, Lance has music blaring—a song that Keith sadly recognizes as one of Bieber's newest. Lance's voice is just as loud. It's obvious the guy isn't holding himself back now that most everyone else is gone.

Everyone except Keith, of course. Who is now standing in the middle of the bathroom wondering _when the hell Lance learned to sing_.

Because that's the thing: Lance sounds _good_. Like, _good_ good. Like, make-you-forget-how-much-you-despise-Justin-Bieber good. Which, for Keith, is a pretty monumental feat.

A blush is already creeping its way up Keith's neck— _again_. Somehow, at every turn, Lance keeps finding a way to throw him completely off guard. With a deep breath, Keith sets the bag in his hand down by the sinks, then slowly moves closer to the only occupied stall.

Lance's crooning only gets louder as the refrain comes in. " _If you feel you're sinking, I will jump right over into cold, cold water for you_."

Keith hesitates in front of the curtain, wondering what, exactly, he's hoping to accomplish here. Maybe telling Lance to _shut the hell up_ and stop turning Keith red as a cherry? That would be nice. The not turning red part, that is. Not the shutting up part. Because, surprisingly, Lance has the voice of an angel. And— _shit_.

Keith stubbornly pushes his thoughts away long enough to cough and ask, "Uh, Lance?"

Lance _yelps_ , and there's a concerning series of solid thumps followed by a groaning "Ow ow ow."

Keith winces, not quite sure what to do as a string of muttered curses echo under the curtain. That actually really sounded like it hurt… He nearly reaches for the curtain to check on Lance—before his brain reminds him that Lance is currently _in the shower_. And, y'know, probably _very naked_.

Keith stops, his hand halfway lifted, and slowly lets it fall back to his side. Then, with a deep breath, he carefully asks, "... Lance? Are you okay?"

There's some scrambling inside the stall, and suddenly the curtain is yanked back just far enough for Lance to poke his face through.

" _Jesus fucking Christ_ , man!" Lance breathes, pinning Keith with a glare. "You scared the _shit_ outta me! What the hell!?"

Keith opens his mouth to respond, but the words don't come. His eyes are too focused on the rivulets of water streaming down Lance's face. His hair, now wet and dark, is dripping liberally and plastered to his forehead and ears. Keith can't help but notice the way Lance's darkened hair brings out the blue in his eyes. There's even a few droplets clinging to his eyelashes. As Keith watches, several more drops drip from the tip of Lance's stupidly pointy nose.

"Uh." _Words, dipshit!_ He can stare at Lance's stupidly attractive face all he wants later—or, well, not—but—

Keith manages to heave the most awkward, graceless shrug of his life. "You just, y'know, surprised me."

Lance scoffs. "Uh, no. _You_ surprised _me_. Did you need anything?"

Keith blinks, then blinks again.

Is he hearing this correctly? Because here is Lance, in the _middle of a shower_ , having _just fallen over_ , sounding as if he's ready to drop everything and help with whatever Keith needs. Seriously, is this guy even real? Because Keith is starting to suspect that maybe he accidentally fell back asleep in his bed and is currently dreaming.

Somehow, the words finally manage to find their way to his mouth. "No, I'm…" Keith gestures awkwardly, not really managing to convey much of anything. "I'm fine. I was just about to hop in myself."

This explains absolutely nothing, but quite frankly, Keith is fairly certain that he doesn't know anything anymore anyways. Unsure what else to say, he adds, "You can go back to ... singing."

This is obviously not the answer Lance was expecting. His face scrunches up in surprised confusion, and he makes a disbelieving noise. "What does _that_ mean?"

His tone is so accusing that Keith can't help but laugh in response, which only manages to make Lance's frown grow. "That wasn't meant to be a jab, dummy," Keith says, still chuckling. "I was being serious."

Lance gives Keith one last, suspicious, searching look, then closes the curtain with a sharp shrug.

As Keith heads into the open stall next to Lance, he can't help but add, "At least your voice is more bearable than your choice of music."

He can hear Lance gasp dramatically as he yanks his own curtain closed. Keith hangs up his towel bag and rests his shower basket on the faucet, not bothering to hide his satisfied smirk.

As Keith yanks his shirt over his head, he hears Lance call over the rushing water, "Okay then, Mr. High and Mighty. What kind of music _do_ you like?"

Keith shrugs, then realizes that Lance can't see him. "Oh, you know," he says, stuffing his clothes into the bag with his towel. "Linkin Park, Breaking Benjamin, 30 Seconds to Mars, Muse. More of the alternative stuff."

Lance snorts, and Keith can't help but frown as he turns on his own shower, carefully testing the water's temperature. "What?" he asks, perhaps a touch defensively. Unlike Lance, he actually likes _good_ music.

"Nothing, nothing," Lance replies airily. "That's just so … you. I guess I shouldn't be surprised."

Keith has absolutely no fucking idea what _that's_ supposed to mean. He frowns— _not_ pouts, definitely not—and is about to ask, when Lance says, "Here, wait. I can arrange that for you, My Liege."

There's a momentary pause, and Keith shoots a confused glare at the metal divider separating the two of them—as they _shower_ , Jesus, this should _not_ be such a big deal. Frustrated—with himself, with Lance, with … with … _this_ —Keith plunges his head under the shower head and lets the warm water run over him. It feels soothing against his aching head, easing some of the pressure that's been steadily building behind and above his eyes since he woke up.

"Aha, here!" Lance says suddenly.

A new song begins, and Keith is surprised to recognize the opening chords of "Closer to the Edge."

"Happy now?" Lance teases.

Keith is beginning to wonder if spending time with Lance means forever being at a loss for words. He hadn't really expected Lance to change his music for him. He just wanted to complain a little—lord knows Lance does enough of that to warrant a bit of retribution.

Lance laughs and adds, "Now you just have to put up with me singing along."

And then he _does_ —just launches right into the lyrics without missing a beat. And the guy sounds fucking _beautiful_. Keith is half tempted to bang his head on the tiled wall in front of him. It's not fair. Seriously. Out of everything, the one thing that Keith should have been able to guess from the very beginning is that Lance McClain _does not play fair_.

Angrily—because, really, this is inexcusable, Lance _cannot_ keep knocking him off his feet like this, he _can't_ —Keith grabs his washcloth from his bag and suds it up. He does his best to ignore the fact that it sounds like Lance is _freaking serenading him_ in the _freaking shower_ to the dulcet tones of _Jared freaking Leto_.

Fucking ridiculous.

 _Just don't think about it_ , Keith tells himself, heart fluttering furiously as he scrubs along his arms. _Don't think about the fact that he's_ literally right next to you.

This, however, is easier said than done, as his burning cheeks prove. For one thing, it sounds like Lance is singing at the top of his lungs, as if _purposely_ trying to get back at Keith for the sleight against his taste in music. And then, of course, there's the fact that the slow burn inching its way through Keith's aching chest refuses to subside. He wouldn't be able to forget about Lance's proximity no matter how much he wants to. And _lord almighty_ , does he _want_ to. Anything for a moment of clarity and relief.

Keith is rinsing off his washcloth when it suddenly hits him.

His bag. The second one. With his change of clothes.

He doesn't have it.

Keith whirls around, so quickly that he nearly pulls a Lance and slips. Sure enough, only his first bag—the one with his towel—is hanging on the hook. Confused, Keith peeks through the side of the curtain and glances around the bathroom…

… and sees his other bag sitting next to the sinks, _all the way_ on the opposite side of the bathroom.

Fucking _shit_. What's he supposed to do now?

Briefly, Keith considers just walking over to grab it. It's not like anyone else is around to walk in on him. Anyone except Lance, that is. Who got here sooner than him. And could easily be wrapping up his shower any moment.

Of course, he can just turn off the shower now. Maybe, if he's quick enough, he can grab his clothes and get back to the stall before Lance finishes up.

Except he still needs to wash his hair, which is pretty disgustingly greasy after spending yesterday in bed.

Fuck, in the amount of time he's stood here debating the situation, he could have easily walked to the sinks and back. Maybe he should just risk it…. But then again, what if that was his only chance? What if Lance finishes up _now_? Keith curses his hesitation, glancing toward Lance's stall. Should he chance it? What's the worst that can happen—Lance seeing him naked? He can handle that, right?

Keith doesn't need a mirror to know his face has gone from bright red to a deep shade of fuschia.

With a long, resigned exhale, Keith closes the gap in his curtain and turns back to the water. Maybe he'll just take his good old time with his hair and hope— _pray_ —that Lance is gone by the time he's done.

Not that this should be a big deal, anyways. It's just like a locker room, right? No biggie at all—

With a sigh, Keith gives up.

Because really, who is he fooling? Definitely not himself. Obviously his brain gives zero fucks about what should or shouldn't be a big deal. At this point, he has no other choice than to pray that he doesn't somehow manage to make things awkward.

A brutally honest part of his mind tells him not to hold his breath.

…

The last of Lance's shampoo has long since washed away, but he keeps his head firmly submerged under the stream of steaming water. He's managed to find that _perfect, elusive_ spot—the one where the water somehow manages to run over both of his ears, blocking out the outside world under a never-ending roar worthy of Niagara Falls—and he's not quite ready to relinquish the shower's warmth or deal with the real world just yet.

He can just barely make out the sound of Muse's "Starlight" blaring from his waterproof speakers. He's not singing along—not anymore, at least. As much as he loves this song—a fact that Keith does not need to know—the lyrics hit a little too close to home to really be comfortable in this situation. He doesn't need to consider holding Keith in his arms, thank you very much. Not after waking up in Keith's bed this morning. And _especially_ not after Keith _freaking complimented his singing_.

Because that's what it was, right? Buried in that derisive comment about good ol' Biebs was what _really_ sounded like a compliment.

Then again, maybe Lance is just being delusional. After all, Keith had barely done more than call his voice "bearable." That should hardly be flattering.

At least, that's what Lance keeps trying to convince himself.

But, well, how many people would tell someone with a _bearable_ voice to go back to singing? In the shower? At who-even-knows-what-time in the morning? Hell, even _Hunk_ tells Lance to shut up more often than not, and he claims to _like_ Lance's singing on occasion.

It's not even a matter of whether Lance can sing or not. He knows he has a pretty good voice. But that never seems to stop anyone—his sister, his dad, his friends—from telling him to can it. He's not used to someone telling him he can _keep_ singing.

The longer Lance considers it, the more certain he is that Keith's little comment was an actual, honest to goodness compliment. He has no idea how to handle this fact. And it's kind of sort of driving him up the wall.

God, it's a pretty sad day when a shower makes Lance _more_ stressed.

With a loud sigh, Lance turns the shower off. He might as well just give up—no amount of soothing water is going to help him at this point.

He slings a towel around his waist, wraps another around his hair, gathers his stuff together, and heads out toward the sinks. He can't help his eyes from straying toward the neighboring stall, catching a glimpse of Keith's feet under the curtain. Lance forcefully yanks his gaze straight forward toward the mirrors, where he's greeted with the sight of his own rather pink face.

Lips twisting in displeasure, Lance plops his shower stuff down on the first sink. Keith already probably thinks Lance is a complete whack job after this morning. Hell, Lance couldn't even bring himself to _face_ Keith when he first woke up. He doesn't need to find Lance bright red and mooning over a glimpse of his ankles like some eighteenth century farm boy.

Lance stifles an annoyed grunt and instead focuses on unwrapping the towel on his head. As he rubs it over his hair, he can hear Keith's shower cut off. In the absence of rushing water, Lance's iPod suddenly sounds ten times louder, the lyrics somehow sounding even _more_ obvious.

" _I'll never let you go, if you promise not to fade away. Never fade away._ "

 _You're such a dork_ , he tells himself sharply. _It's just a song, not frickin' mood music or something_. Even if it _does_ kind of sound like it could be. Not that Keith would probably see it that way…

The thought hurts a little more than Lance is comfortable admitting.

There's a rattle, and Lance looks up from under his towel just in time to see Keith step out from the shower. His heart jumps into his throat so fast that he nearly chokes. Because _damn_.

His brain can't quite seem to choose what to focus on. Keith's ankles are peeking out again, this time from under his simple, white towel, which gaps as he walks to reveal slender, sturdy calves. Bland though the towel's color may be, there is absolutely _nothing_ bland about the way it's slung low on Keith's hips, framing his rather stunningly built abs. Then there's his thin yet oddly enticing goody trail, ghosting from Keith's navel down towards the hidden tip of the V of his hips. Or his arms—oh lord—which somehow are the perfect balance of muscular and sleek, belying a subtle strength in their easy curves. His sculpted shoulders slope into the arc of his neck—a long, graceful line that leaves Lance's mouth utterly dry.

He wants to bite it, he realizes. Lance wants to bite and suck and mar the beautiful, flawless skin of Keith's neck—feel it bob beneath his mouth as Keith swallows—watch it deepen into a blossom of red underneath his tongue.

It's the single most abruptly sexual thought Lance has ever had about a crush, and it knocks the wind clear from his chest—and all rational thought entirely from his mind.

He can't—he shouldn't—this is fucking _Keith_.

Keith, whose stupid mullet looks stupidly beautiful in its stupid, soaked state, the ends curling around his ears and at the nape of his—stupidly attractive—neck.

Keith, whose cheeks and nose are still glowing a healthy, rosy red from the warmth of his shower.

Keith, who is very carefully _not_ looking at Lance. Who is _sick_ , and who is surprisingly in a rather vulnerable state, and who needs a _friend_ — _not_ some pervert oogling him.

This last thought is enough to kickstart Lance's hands into motion, quickly dragging the towel back over his head and burying his—hopefully not _too_ red—face under the guise of drying his hair.

 _Breathe, idiot_ , Lance instructs himself. _Breathe and concentrate on literally_ anything else.

Like the fact that they don't have any school today, thank god. Or the fact that the semester is almost done. Or the fact that it's actually quite cold in the bathroom, now that he's not in the shower anymore—

Quite suddenly, it occurs to Lance that he's cold because he, too, is _only wearing a towel_.

This is nothing new. There is literally no reason in the entire world that this should be any kind of revelation. Lance _never_ brings his clothes with him when he showers. It would be far too easy to accidentally get his change of clothes wet while he's showering or getting dressed in the stall afterward. There is nothing quite so irritating as dealing with wet pant hems brushing against his ankles for half the morning. And Lance is far from the only dorm resident who walks back to his room in a towel after each shower. Pidge always brings their clothes, and Lance is fairly certain that Hunk does too, but he knows that Rick from the room next door never brings his clothes, and neither do several other guys from different hallways.

But right now, here, in this very moment, there is _no one else_. No one except Keith, whose very stunning, very overwhelmingly attractive body is basically on full display. And who has a rather abundant view of _Lance's_ body as well.

 _Stop, stop, stop, stop, STOP!_ Lance yells at himself, scrubbing his towel even harder over his now very dry hair. He's probably damaged it with all of this aggressive attention.

Miffed, Lance tosses his hair towel to the ground, keeping his gaze firmly locked on the sink in front of him. He grabs his toothbrush and paste, then ducks his head low and sets to work cleaning his mouth with an unprecedented amount of focus and determination—anything to distract him from his stupidly attractive lab partner now _getting dressed_ just several feet away.

Lance is relieved—and very _not_ disappointed, of course not—to note that Keith is fully dressed by the time he shuffles up to the neighboring sink and begins to brush his teeth. Feigning a calm he still can't quite manage, Lance sets his toothbrush to the side and grabs his bottle of moisturizer. He gently pats dots of it across his nose, cheeks, and forehead and smooths the lotion into his skin, striving to keep his breathing even.

Luckily, the ease of the routine actually _does_ help, somewhat. Lance has had a few guys laugh at his facial care routine, including one guy who had the _nerve_ to jokingly dangle his "girly shit" over the trash can. (Honestly, Lance feels bad for those idiots who have no appreciation for keeping their skin smooth and healthy—there's nothing quite as delightful as running your fingertips over the silky expanse of your cheeks.) He holds his breath as he takes out his under eye cream and foundation, just waiting for a quip of some sort. But Keith doesn't even spare the bottles a sidelong glance, and Lance finds himself breathing just a touch easier by this fact.

When he's done, Lance tosses the last of this things into his drawstring bag, including his iPod and Bluetooth speaker, which is now broadcasting Keith's beloved Linkin Park. Lance glances over to Keith, stubbornly ignoring the fact that he himself is still wearing nothing but a towel.

"So," he says blithely, "What should we do for lunch?"

Keith freezes in the act of drying his face. His reaction makes Lance's stomach drop. Is he pushing this too much? He had thought, well, y'know, that Keith was cool with hanging out. But maybe he's being too pushy? Maybe—

Keith looks up from his towel with a flat stare that makes Lance's stomach squirm. Oh god—the guy really _doesn't_ want to spend time with him, does he? After all, Lance freaking _fell asleep in his bed_ last night. Keith's probably had more than his fill of him by this point, and—

"Lunch?" Keith asks, tone disbelieving. "It's, like, ten in the morning."

Okay, so it's not an outright rejection. Lance can work with that. Especially because…

"Uh, _no_ ," Lance scoffs, the words leaving his lips before they even process in his mind. "It is…" He reaches into his bag again, grabs out his iPod and lights up the screen, then holds it directly in front Keith's face. "...10:47, thank you very much. Lunch time."

Keith rolls his eyes and swats Lance's hand away—which actually kind of _hurts_ , dammit. Lance whines and cradles his wrist to his chest, but Keith doesn't have the decency to look remorseful. Instead, he bends down to pick up his bags. Of which there are _three_. It's the like the man brought his entire _bedroom_ with him or something.

"I mean, I don't know," Keith finally replies. He finishes situating his bags and throws in another shrug. "I don't have much of anything. I was planning on going shopping yesterday afternoon before break, but getting sick obviously put a damper on that."

Okay, so maybe Keith _doesn't_ mind hanging with him, Lance thinks giddily. Not that he _voices_ his elation, of course.

Instead, he settles for a long, drawn out groan. "Ugh, _Keith_ ," he pleads, shaking his head for good measure. "You're supposed to be the responsible one here. I don't have anything either. Are you telling me we're gonna have to live off of the vending machines?"

This elicits an outright _scowl_ from Keith, and Lance suddenly can't help but wonder what kind of terror he's brought upon himself. After all, Keith is the kind of person to eat _carrots_ and freaking _cauliflower_ as a snack. Lance knows—he's actually _seen_ the guy with a baggie of veggies in the lounge. And he has it on good authority (*cough* Hunk *cough*) that this is not just some singular occurrence. Like, seriously. Who snacks on _raw freaking cauliflower_?

Lance is just coming to terms with the fact that he's probably going to have to deal with _hell_ when a thought suddenly occurs to him.

"Oh, oh, wait!" he says excitedly. "I almost forgot—I've got a box of mac 'n cheese!"

"You mean, like, the Kraft kind?" Keith asks. He doesn't look particularly impressed by this revelation.

"Yup!" Lance assures him. He can't keep the grin off his face as he adds, "It's the good stuff, too! I keep forgetting to eat it—I put it in the bottom of my drawer so that Pidge wouldn't steal it."

Keith snorts and shoots Lance a grin that is equal parts amused and disbelieving. "You had to hide it?" he asks. "... From _Pidge_?"

Lance _should_ be offended. _Should be_ , except he's finding it really hard to breathe as he takes in the stunning smile lighting up Keith's face. It's doing something funny to his chest—making it feel tight and constricted, and yet also managing to make it feel so achingly full that it might just burst.

It's a touch overwhelming.

"Yeah," Lance manages to breathe out. He's startled to realize that his voice sounds a bit hoarse. "We can, uh..." He fumbles, taking a deep breath in an attempt to sound more assured and less, well, breathless. "We can go grab it from my room and then head over to the kitchen."

Keith shrugs again, which Lance takes for a yes. He throws his bag over his shoulder, still not bothering to turn off the music. It's the middle of break, after all, and the dorm is basically empty. He doubts anyone is going to care. Then, with a glance to make sure that Keith is good— _seriously_ , how does the guy keep track of all that shit?—Lance heads towards the door.

It's silent between them as they walk, and with each step Lance starts to feel a shred of his unease work its way back into his middle. He glances towards Keith, who has his gaze stubbornly trained on the fliers posted along the far wall. Grasping for something— _anything_ —to break the awkward silence, Lance asks, "You took the meds, right?"

"Yeah," Keith grunts. He _still_ doesn't bother to look over, although Lance could swear the corner of his mouth twitches upward for a split second.

Lance hums in acknowledgement. "Kay, then that was probably, what? Twenty after, maybe? You'll probably need another dose a bit after two."

Keith looks over long enough to roll his eyes. "Seriously, I'm feeling one hell of a lot better than yesterday. It'll be fine."

Lance fixes him with a stern stare, barely managing to bite back a derisive groan. "I don't know why you keep arguing about this," he says. "If you're sick, then just take the medicine. I would think you'd _want_ to get better faster."

Keith sighs, but he doesn't push it. Lance makes a mental note to pester the guy at two, just in case. It's like the guy _wants_ to suffer or something.

It's not a far walk to Lance and Pidge's room. Lance holds the door open for Keith and then moves over to drop his bag on his bed.

"Wow," Keith says behind him.

Lance glances back to see Keith frowning as he looks around the room. "What?" he asks.

"It's just…" Keith shrugs, eyeing Pidge's bed with a strange look. "... really messy."

Lance snorts. "Oh c'mon. It's not that bad." He moves over to his dresser to grab out something to wear, struggling to keep a blush from rising on his face. Keith had gotten dressed in front of him in the bathroom, after all. This isn't any different.

Except for them now being alone in Lance's _room_. With Lance about to be suddenly _completely_ naked. Right next to his goddamn bed.

 _Pull it together, McClain_.

"I mean, with you, I'm not all that surprised," Keith continues. Lance squawks in protest, but before he can say anything else, Keith adds, "But Pidge? I didn't think they'd be so…"

" _Pssh_ ," Lance says, shaking his head. "Are you kidding? Pidge is worse than me. Do you know they have an entire shoebox filled with pencil nubs? _Pencil nubs_. They haven't thrown away a pencil since the third grade."

"That's…" It's obvious Keith is at a loss for words.

Lance shrugs. "Apparently there's something sentimental about it to them—I can't quite figure it out."

"At least they don't have their underwear lying around in heaps all over their bed," Keith points out.

Lance winces, fighting against a rising blush. "Ouch, dude. Low blow. And besides, they add a much needed flair of color to this drab box of a room."

Keith makes a disbelieving noise, which Lance chooses to ignore. He spares a quick glance over at Keith and is highly relieved to find the guy closely studying the corkboard above Lance's bed. Swiftly, Lance drops his towel to the ground and hurriedly tugs on his clothes.

The current song comes to an end on the speaker inside the bag on Lance's bed. There's a small pause, then "Heathens" begins, and Lance happily hums along.

After a few measures, Lance hears Keith ask, "You like Twenty One Pilots?"

Lance—thankfully now fully clothed—glances over to find Keith looking up at him. "Uh, _yeah_ ," Lance replies, shifting his shoulders along to the beat as he heads back over to his dresser. "They're amazing!"

"What's your favorite song?" Keith asks. He moves a little closer as Lance pulls open the only drawer that's currently shut all the way.

"Hmmm," Lance hums, considering. "Well, I really like all the ones on the radio, but I think 'Tear in My Heart' is my favorite."

"Oh."

Keith's response is surprisingly lackluster. Lance glances over to find Keith watching him with a disappointed look. "What?" Lance asks.

"Nothing," Keith says with a shrug. Then, when Lance raises his eyebrows questioningly, he adds, "Just … you've only heard their singles?"

"Well, yeah," Lance says, starting to feel a bit defensive. "I haven't had time to look into any of their other songs yet. Why?"

"I mean, you're missing out on the best of their stuff," Keith explains.

Lance can feel his eyebrows inching even higher. "Really?" he asks. "Like what?"

Keith actually has the nerve to _roll his eyes_. "Like their first album? Or _Regional at Best_? You probably haven't even heard anything off of _Vessel_ either, I bet."

"They have three albums already?" Lance asks. "But I've only heard, like, four of their songs."

"They have four albums, actually," Keith says, sounding unforgivably smug.

"Okay, okay," Lance shoots back. He bends over his drawer, rummaging through his pile of clean boxers and retrieving the box of Kraft hidden underneath. "Let me grab my computer, and you can play some of their stuff for me while we make lunch."

Lance heads over to his bed and lifts up his sheets, then frowns when he doesn't see his laptop. He leans over and glances under his bed, then looks around the floor. He stops short when he hears Keith stifle another round of laughter.

"What?" he asks flatly, looking up to find Keith watching him with an amused smirk.

"Your computer's in my room, remember?" he asks. "How on earth do you even find anything in this mess of a room, anyways?"

Lance _so_ does not appreciate that tone. "I have a system," he replies tersely.

Keith quirks an eyebrow, taking another long look around the room. "Yeah…" he replies slowly. "I'm finding that hard to believe."

Lance taps his head conspiratorially. "I mean up here," he explains. "I just sort of … _remember_ where I put things."

Keith's face turns mockingly serious. "Like your laptop?"

"Oh, stuff it!" Lance shoots back. "I never said it was foolproof."

Contrary to his scandalized tone, Lance is finding it really difficult to actually be insulted. The wide grin on Keith's face is ridiculously cute, and Lance is beginning to realize that he likes seeing Keith like this—lost in the moment and having fun, even if Lance is the butt of the joke he's laughing at. It's a playful side of Keith that, up until yesterday, Lance had never really glimpsed before.

Lance reaches into his bag to turn off his iPod and speaker. Then, grabbing the box of mac, he heads to the door. "C'mon, let's go get my computer."

They're both quiet as they walk to Keith's room, but this time Lance doesn't find himself dying to fill the silence. It's actually rather comfortable, and he can't quite keep a small grin from his lips as they walk down the halls.

Once they reach Keith's room, Lance takes the handle and twists, then stops short when the door refuses to budge.

"What the heck?" he asks, shooting Keith an annoyed look. "You locked it?"

"Yeah," Keith replies, like this is the most obvious thing in the world. "You mean you didn't lock yours?"

Lance lifts his hands in a small shrug. "I mean, it's not like anyone is around."

Keith bends over, reaching for his pocket, and replies, "Don't you think that means that someone would be even _more_ likely to break—HEY!"

Lance ignores his outraged exclamation and continues to wiggle the handle.

"No, wait," Keith says with surprisingly conviction. "I've got the key right here!"

"Eh, this is faster," Lance tells him. He twists and then pushes the way Hunk had shown him, applying just the right amount of pressure, and the door clicks open. He shoots Keith a large, satisfied grin and walks inside.

He can hear Keith grumbling behind him as he follows. "What happens when you break the lock?" Keith asks grimly.

"Then you just tell them the shitty handle broke," Lance replies breezily. "They'll replace it."

"Hmm," Keith hums, sounding thoughtful. "Probably with a new lock that can't be busted into. Maybe I should just break it on purpose."

Lance gasps, looking at Keith accusingly. "And when Hunk forgets his homework and begs me to grab it!? What then? You would just leave Hunk hanging!?"

Keith rolls his eyes. "Better than you walking in on me while I'm changing or something."

That thought stops Lance cold, halfway across the room to Keith's bed.

Oh.

 _Oh_.

He had… He hadn't thought of that. That would be—I mean, to even _think_ that he might possibly— _Jesus fucking Christ_.

So, of course, his brain's automatic response is to bark out a forced laugh. "Ugh, true," he says with all the faux disgust that he can gather.

Stiffly, he finishes heading over to Keith's bed—the bed where they _slept together, holy shit, pull it together!_ God, if he doesn't get a hold of himself quickly, he's gonna wind up as red as a tomato. Lance focuses solidly his computer, unplugging the cord from the laptop, then crawling onto the bed to reach the outlet. He leans low to reach his arm between the gap of the mattress and the wall, jiggles the plug, then shimmies backwards off of the bed.

He scoops up his laptop along with the mac 'n cheese and turns around, only to find Keith watching him with rather wide eyes.

Confused, Lance hitches up the cord and asks, "Uh… you ready, then?"

Keith _flinches_ , a small blush slowly working its way into his cheeks. "Y-yeah," he says quickly, stumbling a bit over the words. "Let's go eat."

Then he turns on his heel and flees from the room, not even waiting to lock the door behind Lance.

Lance watches Keith's hunched shoulders with growing confusion. Did he say something? Or maybe it was the changing comment? Except _Keith_ was the one who had fucking brought it up! With a frown, Lance closes the door and follows after.

…

"Alright," Lance tells Keith as he sets his laptop and the box of noodles on the countertop. "Time for some lunch."

He heads to the fridge first, grabbing the unidentified butter from yesterday and setting it on the counter beside the box. Lance is relieved to see that there's also a half gallon of milk sitting in the door. He picks it up, twists off the lid, and sniffs. Luckily, it smells just fine, and it's only a couple days past the sell by date, so Lance places it on the counter as well.

"Dude."

Lance looks up to find Keith watching him with an accusing glare. "What?" he asks, voice rising defensively.

"You're just gonna steal someone's milk?" Keith asks, glancing over at the carton.

Lance rolls his eyes, closing the fridge door with his hip. "I'm sure it's fine," he says. He pats Keith's shoulder consolingly as he walks past.

"No, actually, it's not," Keith replies. He jabs a finger at the name GINA very clearly written on the side with Sharpie. "You can't just take other people's food."

"Relax," Lance tells him, reaching into one of the cabinets to retrieve a bowl. "It'll probably go bad by the time they get back anyways. It's not like us using a little bit is going to make any difference."

Lance can feel Keith's silent scorn drilling into the back of his head as he heads over to the sink. He willfully ignores him, however—after all, they are stuck in a dorm with very few options, here. A couple tablespoons of milk is hardly going to make a difference to _Gina_ —whoever the hell that is. For _them_ , however, it will mean the difference between lunch and starving. Priorities.

Lance turns the faucet on as hot as it'll get and lets the water warm up. There's a rustle, and then Keith moves next to him, watching as Lance wiggles his fingers in the stream of water.

"Okay, question," Keith says. He pins Lance with a frown, eyebrows drawn down in confusion. "Don't you need a stove to make mac 'n cheese? How the heck are you intending to cook this?"

"Do you honestly think I would let something as inconsequential as the lack of a stove get in the way of enjoying my mac 'n cheese?" Lance scoffs. "Seriously, have a little faith, man. Just watch and learn from the master." He throws Keith a quick wink and can't help a snigger when Keith swats his shoulder in disgust.

The water starts to bite at his fingers, and Lance pulls away, shaking the excess drops from his hand. He opens the box, pours the noodles into the bowl, then sets the bowl under the faucet.

"Are those… shapes?" Keith asks.

"Uh, duh?" Lance replies. "And not just _any_ shapes: it's Star Wars." He picks up the box and waves it in front of Keith's face for emphasis, gesturing at the picture of Yoda on the cardboard. "I told you I had the good stuff."

"Oh… oh my god," Keith manages to splutter, before breaking down into outright laughter. Lance bristles as Keith doubles over, wiping at his tearing eyes. "W-What the hell?"

" _What_?" Lance asks. He is _trying_ to be miffed, but it's a bit hard when Keith's laugh is so completely dorky in the cutest way possible. This isn't just some chuckle or condescending chortle—this is a full out belly laugh, complete with awkward gasps and almost-snorts. _Too fucking adorable_.

With a feigned frown, Lance turns away and twists off the faucet before the bowl can overfill.

Keith struggles to stifle his laughter, taking deep breaths and shaking his head. After a moment he manages to straighten back up, though he braces himself with a hand on the countertop.

"Sorry, sorry," Keith says. He doesn't _look_ sorry at all, with a grin still tugging at the corner of his lips despite his obvious attempts to keep a straight face.

Lance merely gives him a flat look as he stirs the noodles with a spoon. After all, _no one_ is allowed to get away with dissing Star Wars mac 'n cheese. Not even super cute dorks with a stupidly cute smile.

"Just one question," Keith adds, unable to keep his grin from cracking through his shoddy facade. "Pidge actually would have stolen _this_?"

Lance heaves an accusing gasp and smacks Keith in the stomach with the empty box. "Yes, actually," he says incredulously. "For your information, they totally would have lifted this from me. Everyone knows that shaped mac 'n cheese is the best kind." Lance turns and grabs the bowl off the counter, then heads over to the microwave, turning his back on Keith. Over his shoulder, he adds, "You're just lucky I had such a good hiding place."

"Right…" Keith replies in a flat voice. "You mean under your underwear?"

"Yes!" Lance replies indignantly. He shoves the bowl into the microwave, then punches ten minutes into the timer. "I've had that there for _weeks_ and they never found it."

"Dude, I don't think it's a matter of whether Pidge could find it or not," Keith replies with amused condescension. "They probably just didn't want to dig through your pile of boxers."

Lance whirls around to face Keith, waving the spoon in front of him for good measure. "Do you not want my underwear noodles?" he threatens, staring Keith down. "Because I can totally keep these for myself."

Keith makes a disgusted face at this suggestion. "Do you even hear yourself?" he asks, scrunching his nose and pushing Lance's spoon out of his face. "If you keep calling them that, then no, I don't think I do."

"Well _maybe_ if _someone_ didn't go around insulting the _single greatest contribution_ to modern society, I would haven't to," Lance retorts.

Keith rolls his eyes and shakes his head, holding up his hands in a rather lackluster surrender.

Lance pins him with a suspicious gaze and waits, _just in case_ Keith decides to commit any further blasphemy. But the guy simply crosses his arms and leans back on the counter, eying the box sidelong.

" _So_ ," Lance says decisively, deciding to be the bigger person and let it pass… this time. He lifts the screen of his laptop, then shoots Keith an expectant look. "While we're waiting for the food… what are we listening to?"

Keith hums, considering. His expression brightens noticeably as he shuffles closer to Lance to glance at the screen. "Let's start with their second album, _Regional at Best_."

Lance types the words into the YouTube search bar, then skims through the results that pop up.

"That one," Keith says, pointing toward a video. From the looks of it, it's the entire album all in one video.

Lance presses play, adjusts the volume a little higher, then sets the computer further back on the counter. As the music begins, he shifts around so that he's leaning back against counter, standing next to Keith.

"This came out back in 2011," Keith tells him. It's obvious how excited the guy is, an open grin split across his face. Too cute. Too _fucking_ cute. "They redid some of these songs for their third album, _Vessel_ , which was with a label. But I like the original tracks best."

"What's this one called?" Lance asks, stretching to glance back at the screen.

"'Guns for Hands,'" Keith tells him. "This was the first song of theirs I heard. Here, just listen."

Lance shuts up, paying closer attention to the music. Still, he can't help himself from glancing at Keith from the corner of his eye. He's never seen Keith look like _this_ either—face excited, eyes bright. Usually Keith just looks like someone has perpetually shoved ice down the back of his shirt—y'know, an annoyed frown, brows lowered, ready to snap at Lance over the littlest things while they set up their materials or write up their lab reports.

Not that that's ever stopped Lance from noticing how ridiculously _hot_ Keith is. (A fact that Lance has always found rather regretful. Lab would be _so_ much easier if he didn't have to constantly hide his low-key attraction to his grumpy partner. Lance had tried turning up the charm— _once_. And Keith had shot him down so fast and with such obvious annoyance that Lance had completely let it drop.) He had eventually come to the conclusion that maybe Keith just _liked_ walking around with a stick constantly stuck up his superbly fine ass. This conclusion had somehow done nothing to deter his growing crush on the jerk.

But _this_? Lance forcefully shoves his hands into his pockets, doing his best to keep the swirling mess in his stomach at bay. Keith geeking out with a goofy grin over his favorite band? It's a bit too much for Lance to handle.

Keith shoots him an expectant, hopeful glance, and Lance can't help giving him a reassuring smile in return.

"It's good," he says.

And the thing is, it _is_. The music is ridiculously catchy. The beat kind of makes Lance want to get up and jam. And the lyrics are interesting—veiled just enough that Lance finds himself paying close attention in an attempt to discern their meaning.

Keith relaxes visibly, leaning back a little more loosely against the counter. He's relieved, Lance realizes—relieved that Lance is actually enjoying his music. Oh shit, how is Lance even _supposed_ to react to something like that? He settles for shooting Keith another reassuring smile.

For a few minutes they stay like that, standing comfortably side by side while the album plays. As the songs progress, Lance finds himself more and more drawn into the music.

"It's so…" Lance trails off, struggling to find the right way to describe it. Their style isn't quite like anything he's heard before—or, well, more like it's a strange mash up of several different types.

Keith laughs, nodding his head. "Right? They describe themselves of 'schizophrenic pop.'"

"Damn, yes," Lance replies. He can only nod as the current song suddenly shifts from an oppressive, almost industrial sound to a happy, upbeat melody. "What's this one?"

"'Ode to Sleep,'" Keith replies.

"It's kind of intense," Lance says. He shuffles around until he's facing the screen, then bends down and leans his elbows on the countertop. "Like, unsettling or something."

"It's genius is what it is," Keith corrects him. Lance glances up to find Keith leaning on his side, hip resting on the edge of the counter and looking down at Lance with a small smile.

Lance should say something. Or do something. _Anything_ except stare wordlessly up at Keith—y'know, the thing that he's _currently_ doing. Because that's kind of weird, right? Silently staring at your super hot lab partner when your faces are only a couple of inches apart, that is. Scratch that—it's totally weird.

But any possible words die long before they have a chance to reach Lance's tongue. For a reason he can't quite discern. For a million reasons. Because it _should_ feel weird to hold eye contact at this distance, except somehow _it doesn't_. Because looking into Keith's eyes somehow feels like floating in the water on a lazy summer afternoon—weightless, and yet on the constant verge of almost falling, knowing that maybe he should be terrified of the depths below, and yet he isn't. Because Lance wants to grab the satisfied grin right off of Keith's lips and drape it around his shoulders like a snug blanket for everyone to see. Because Lance's thoughts have _literally stopped making sense_ at this point and he is heading straight into Wonky-ville.

His thoughts are suddenly like molasses: sticky, inescapable, and sickeningly sweet.

And he is screwed—utterly _screwed_ —because although his mind is anxiously shouting at him to just break eye contact before he drags this whole situation completely over the deep end, his body has apparently decided to give his brain the middle finger and not bother to listen.

And for some reason, Keith is simply _watching him back_. Looming over him by just a few inches that somehow have Lance's stomach churning and roiling in a far too pleasant manner. _Damn_ , he could get used to having this face hovering above his—

Shit. Did he say he was screwed? Understatement of the year. Lance is 100% royally fucked.

The microwave beeps and Lance _jolts_ , stomach lurching unpleasantly in surprise. But it's a welcome relief—an excuse to _finally_ tear his gaze away from Keith—so he quickly pushes away from the counter.

As soon as he stands up, Lance realizes that he feels _physically_ dizzy. Like he's suffering from some sort of friggin' _disease_ or something.

Lance firmly shakes his head and takes the bowl out of the microwave, mindful to keep it on a potholder and not wreck the countertop. Then, wielding the spoon, he gets to work mixing in the rest of the ingredients. As he stirs in the melting butter, he keeps his gaze firmly anchored on the food in front of him. This doesn't do shit to keep his mind from running at a sprint.

What is _wrong_ with him? When has he _ever_ been so tripped up by a crush? Normally, even if he's embarrassed, Lance can turn up the flirting to the highest notch. It comes as naturally to him as his godgiven sarcasm. And _really_ , he's made googly eyes at a solid third of the students on campus. Why on Earth should he feel so embarrassed about making googly eyes at Keith? Again, it's just fucking Keith.

Except, well… it's fucking _Keith_.

A terrible, traitorous part of his mind can't help but add, _I'm all for fucking Keith_. Lance soundly stomps down on that thought, forcefully ejecting it from his mind—not least of all because it's true.

"Okay," Lance announces decisively, slipping the milk and butter back into the fridge. In the back of his mind, he repeats a mantra: _Keep it together. Keep it together. Keep it together._ It kind of works. Kind of. "We're good to go."

Lance pauses the music, picks up the bowl of mac, then stops and glances around. His cereal bowl is still in the sink, dirty from the soup he had made for Keith yesterday. It's sitting on top of his plate, which is littered with toast crumbs. His mugs are similarly occupied, stacked along the edge of the sink.

For a moment, Lance considers washing his dishes. It's a very, very brief moment.

"Eh, let's just eat out of the bowl," he says with a shrug. He grabs two of the common use spoons from the drawer and heads over to the table.

"Wait, what?" Keith is paused halfway through the motion of sitting down on one of the chairs, watching Lance with a confused frown. "You seem to keep forgetting: _I'm sick_."

"And _you_ keep forgetting what _I_ said," Lance scolds back, plopping down in the seat across from him. "I've dealt with far more contagious siblings. It'll be fine."

"You're a fucking idiot," Keith tells him flatly. "It doesn't work like that. If you're exposed—"

"Look," Lance says, firmly cutting him off. With a flourish, he extends one of the spoons across the table. "Are you hungry or not?"

Keith glares at him a moment, glances towards the sink, then glares at him again. Then, with a grumbled comment too quiet to be discernable, Keith takes the spoon that Lance is holding out to him. Apparently Keith is just as loath to get up and take the time to wash the dishes. Lance can't fault him for this.

Wriggling his eyebrows in triumph, Lance leans across the table and digs in. It is just as delicious as he had hoped: warm and creamy and cheesy and wonderful. True, it would have been _even better_ if it had been made on the stove. But given the choice between slightly less than perfect mac 'n cheese and none, Lance will gladly settle.

He licks his spoon and glances across the table to Keith, whose face is twisted into a slight grimace. Keith quickly chews and swallows his mouthful, then shoots an accusing glare at Lance. "It's just as gross as I remember it being," he announces.

The obnoxious gasp that rips from Lance's lungs is only half theatrical. "Are you out of your mind!?" he asks, horrified. Lance has half a mind to scoop the bowl of noodles into his arms and cover its nonexistent ears to save it from hearing such blasphemy. "It's shaped!" he points out. Again. _Just in case_ Keith has somehow managed to miss this point. "Like _Star Wars_!"

"Yeah, but it's still just shitty, boxed Kraft stuff," Keith replies flippantly.

Lance's jaw is hanging open—again, only half for the theatrical effect. He pulls out his super special stash of pure gold. His _very last box_. His _top secret underwear noodles_. And _this_ is the response he gets? Screw Keith's debilitating smile—this is sacrilege!

Despite his obvious derision, Keith reaches across the table a second time. He scoops a solid spoonful, then eats it—this time without a grimace, although Lance doesn't miss the way he hesitates just before beginning to chew.

And just like that, all of the wind is knocked out of Lance's sails. At the end of the day, Keith is still sick, and Lance is still doing his best to try to help him feel better. Which, he begrudgingly admits, takes precedence over defending the honor of his precious Kraft.

"Hey..." he says slowly, watching as Keith takes another bite. "Seriously, you don't have to force yourself if you don't like it."

To his surprise, Keith shrugs. He finishes chewing what's in his mouth, then says, "Beats whatever's in the vending machine. It just tastes kind of weird."

That. That right there. _That's_ what gets Lance. Every. Single. Friggin'. Time.

Because Keith _doesn't_ like it. It's obvious that he's just shoring up his dislike for the food and soldiering on. And for what? Why doesn't he just stop eating? It's not like the guy has ever been shy about putting his foot down. Lance has been chewed out by Keith on more than one occasion when he's messed up in lab, or excessively tapped his pencil on the desk, or ran his mouth off a bit too much for one class period.

And yet here he is, just… just… _taking it_. Lance is serving him food that the guy doesn't like—and being a shithead on top of that—and the guy acts as if everything's fine. It's the same as Keith not bothering to tell anyone that he's sick in the first place. It's the same as him constantly turning down Lance's offers to help when he's obviously still not feeling well.

How can this grumpy, irritable, insufferable, bossy guy suddenly turn around and silently swallow all of his objections?

Lance still can't quite wrap his head around it. And for some reason, it's really, _really_ pissing him off. Because if Keith is unhappy, then he should just _say something_. If he's sick, or if he needs help, or if he doesn't like Kraft mac 'n cheese, then why _shouldn't_ he say, _Hey, Lance, y'know what? I actually don't like this stuff. And I'm still not feeling well. Can you figure something else out?_ Would that _really_ be so hard? Like, _really_? Because, for all his griping and moaning, Lance _would_. He can order fucking Chinese or something. Hell, he can even trek to the grocery store if that's the only food Keith can stomach.

And yet here's Keith, chewing unnecessarily long on a spoonful of noodles as if everything is just peachy. And Lance feels _bad_. It's not even a fully stocked kitchen, so it's not like he can spice up the mac 'n cheese like he might back home with chicken or extra cheese or—

"Hey, wait!" Lance says suddenly. He hops up from the table and yanks open the fridge door.

"What?" Keith calls from the table.

Lance scans the shelves and laughs excitedly when he finds what he's looking for. A wide grin on his face, Lance slowly spins around and faces Keith. "Look what I found~" he sings, wiggling a bottle of sriracha.

Lance is so proud of himself that he nearly skips back over to the table. "And before you ask, _yes, actually, I can use this_. It's Ty's, and he said I can use it whenever I want."

Keith's brows are furrowed low over his eyes, but in a curious sort of way rather than a derisive one. "Hot sauce?" he asks.

"Yup!" Lance replies. "This stuff makes everything taste better!" He makes an excessive show of twisting off the spout, exceedingly proud of himself for being such a complete and utter _genius_.

Lance is just about to squeeze some into the bowl when he notices Keith's doubtful look. "Unless…" he replies, stopping mid-motion, "you don't like hot sauce?"

"No, it's fine," Keith replies, leaning back in his chair as if nothing's wrong.

And god fucking dammit, that's _not an answer_. Not coming from _this_ idiot, who Lance apparently can't trust to give him an honest reply.

So Lance does the only thing he _knows_ how to do with Keith. With a slow, shit eating grin, he teases, "Or maybe you just can't handle the heat."

Keith's lips tighten imperceptibly. But then he shrugs, not rising to the bait. "I can do spicy," he replies. "I'm just not sure anything can make boxed mac and cheese appetizing."

Half of Lance is pissed that Keith would take _another_ shot at his precious mac. But the other half of Lance might as well be jumping around in circles and pumping his fist for joy. Now _that's_ Keith's true opinion. It's _wrong_ , of course. _But_ —Lance can't help but note with delight—it's progress.

"Alright," Lance tells him. "Prepare to be amazed." He gives the bottle several squeezes, judging the amount by eye. He's not _quite_ sure how much to add—normally at home, there'd be several other ingredients thrown in. But, well, hey. Better more spice than less, yeah?

He's just about to stop when Keith heaves a pointed cough. Frowning, Lance looks up from the bowl and meets Keith's dubious glare. "You maybe wanna take it easy with that stuff?" Keith asks. He gestures to the bottle and adds, "That's got to be, like, three times as much as it needs."

"Ooh, what's wrong?" Lance coos. He puckers his lips and makes a baby face at Keith. "Too much for you? I knew it."

Keith's glare slides down into a fierce _scowl_ , and with a quickening pulse, Lance realizes that he's apparently hit a nerve. Because this? This is the Keith he's come to know from lab.

"You wish," Keith spits, leaning across the table with narrowed eyes. "I was just worried about it being too much for _you_."

Oh _hell_ no. It is _so fucking on_.

Lance's jaw clenches, his smile turning almost painful as he sets to work squeezing more sriracha into the bowl. By now it's seeping into the noodles, looking for all the world like chocolate sauce on top of ice cream—y'know, if chocolate sauce were red and ice cream were chunky.

Part of Lance asks if this is the best idea—after all, the whole point here is to make the mac 'n cheese more bearable for Keith. Except, well, even _more_ than that, the point is that Keith needs to fucking speak up if he wants something. If it's too much hot sauce, then he should just _say so_ —otherwise Lance is just going to do as he pleases. Yes, this thought is kind of petty, and yes, a small part of Lance _knows_ that the more responsible thing to do would be to be a little less heavy handed and just stick to a reasonable amount of sriracha...

But then he catches the challenging glint in Keith's eye and can't help but throw rational thought to the wind. Because Lance will be _damned_ if he ever lets Keith fucking Kogane get the best of him.

Okay, scratch that. If he's being honest, Keith gets the best of him a little too often for Lance's liking. _But_. Lance'll be damned if he lets Keith Kogane get the best of him _without putting up a fight_. Especially a fight that Lance knows, for a fact, that he can win. And if Keith happens to be sick and not at the top of his game, well then hey, all's fair in love and war.

Lance jots in one last dash for good measure, then sets the bottle aside. "Whaddya think?" he asks. "Is that enough for you?"

"Looks fucking fantastic," Keith replies. Lance can't help but notice with glee that Keith's grip on his spoon has tightened to the point of shaking. Oh my god, this baby doesn't stand a _chance_.

Lance grabs the bowl from across the table and uses his spoon to stir it up. At this point, the yellow of the noodles has all but disappeared into a lurid orange-red. As he mixes it all in, the scent of hot sauce wafts upward, tingling his nose the way an onion might. Lance does his best to ignore the way the scent stings at his eyes.

Once it's good and mixed, Lance flops back down into his chair. With a lazy grin, he pushes the bowl across the table top. "After you, princess," he coos sweetly.

Without even blinking, his glare focused solely on Lance, Keith reaches forward and takes a spoonful of mac. Then, still staring Lance down, he slips the spoon into his mouth.

Lance is doing his best to rein in his elation, struggling to keep his face nonchalant. Because this is going to be _good_. There's no way Keith is going to be able to handle the heat, and Lance is waiting giddily for the breakdown: eyes watering, mouth gasping, facing turning red, fanning himself, begging for water. The whole nine yards.

Keith chews, methodical but not slow. Lance waits… and waits…

Keith swallows, still looking just as calm as he did before. He reaches forward for another scoop, then pauses. With a sly, challenging grin, he asks, "You gonna get in on this?"

Okay, what the hell. Is there something wrong with Ty's bottle of sriracha? Because Keith's face is still completely straight, cheeks pale and smooth and very _not_ flushed with heat. Biting back a growl, Lance takes a spoonful of mac and shoves it into his mouth.

And almost spits it right back out.

Holy _shit_.

 _Too much_. It is _way too much_ hot sauce. He may as well have shoved a heated fire poker into his mouth. At this point, Lance can hardly even _taste_ the cheese—it's all just heat with a noodle base. Jesus fucking Christ, this is _just great_. All he's managed to do is ruin a perfectly good box of Kraft Star Wars.

Keith is watching him carefully, a small smirk still resting on his lips. That gloating grin burns at Lance almost as much as the shit in his mouth, pushing away any lingering guilt he's feeling for making Keith eat this shit. Through sheer determination, Lance forcefully keeps his face straight, ignoring the tears that are beginning to prick at the corners of his eyes. He chews, swallows, swallows _again_ because _holy shit that hurts_ , then shoots his own wide grin at Keith. "Yum. Didn't I tell you?" he asks, mouth burning around the words. "Best shit in the world."

Then he reaches over and eats another spoonful, willfully ignoring the renewed wave of heat battering his mouth.

Keith is watching him closely, and Lance just _knows_ the asshole is waiting for some kind of reaction. Tough luck, buddy. No one in Lance's family loves spicy foods more than him, and he is not gonna be outdone by anyone— _especially_ Keith.

Keith's still holding his second spoonful in front of him, and Lance raises his eyebrows expectantly as he chews. He's careful to breathe in through his nose to try to control the blaze that has engulfed his throat.

For a moment Keith hesitates, and Lance is _sure_ that he's got this in the bag. But then Keith's brows furrow and he stubbornly begins to eat again.

There is _no way in hell_ Lance is going to let Keith have the last bite. And so he goes back for one more spoonful, and then another, and another, chewing through the pain and doing his best to keep the tears from welling too much.

He's not very successful. After the fourth mouthful, he blinks and one manages to spill over, tickling its way down his cheek. Lance stubbornly sniffs and blinks the rest of the moisture away from his eyes, exhaling harshly through his mouth to try to dispel some of the searing heat.

The only consolation is that Keith isn't holding up much better. Lance is satisfied to see that his cheeks have _finally_ taken on a slightly pink shade. There's a small trickle of sweat running down his temple as well, which gives Lance hope.

Still, Keith somehow manages to keep his face ridiculously straight, with only a stray grimace breaking through every now and then.

The problem is, Lance is becoming less and less sure that he can hold out with each passing bite. The sting is working its way up into his nose and sinuses, and his entire head and neck feel like they've caught fire. It's taking him three times as long to finish chewing a mouthful of noodles as it had just a minute or two ago—simply because his stomach keeps protesting the thought of stuffing itself with any more of this shit.

The bowl is nearly empty in front of them, with maybe five spoonfuls each left to go. Lance manages to gag down what he has in his mouth, looks over at the bowl through watery eyes, and realizes with sickening dread that even one more spoonful will see him hurling up his guts into the trash.

With a gasp, Lance drops his spoon on the table top. "Holy shit, okay, _enough_!" he gasps, pushing his chair back from the table so fast that it squeaks. Then he's up and heading back to the fridge, desperate for _anything_ to get rid of the awful, burning taste.

Keith slams his hand down on the table in triumph, causing the bowl and Lance's spoon to rattle dangerously. Lance shoots the guy a death glare and is rewarded with the sight of Keith groaning and doubling over. It almost makes up for being the first to wimp out. Almost.

It also, however, has the unfortunate effect of replanting the small kernel of guilt back into the pit of Lance's stomach. This, coupled with the ungodly amount of spicy mac hanging out in his gut, is doing nothing to make Lance feel any better.

Fighting back a wave of nausea, Lance yanks open the fridge door and looks around. Luckily, the bag of bread he'd bought yesterday is sitting on the top shelf along with the two bottles of Canada Dry. Nearly crying in relief, Lance untwists the tie and grabs out a slice. He munches on it desperately, glad to have something to help absorb the awful flavor.

He glances over at Keith, whose eyes light up at the sight of the bread. "Bring me a piece of that, would you?" Keith asks, voice hoarse.

Lance nods, mouth still stuffed with his current piece. He grabs two more slices from the bag, as well as the ginger ales, and heads back over to the table.

Keith accepts the bread without a word, quickly taking several big bites and closing his eyes in relief. He cracks an eye open, though, at the sound of Lance opening one of the pops, and watches with a frown as Lance takes a sip.

"Do I even dare ask who those belong to?" Keith asks, taking another bite of bread.

Lance ignores him for a moment, gratefully gulping down a few sips. He hisses a sigh of relief when he finally lets up, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, only to find Keith glaring at him accusingly again.

"Oh, settle down," Lance tells him with a roll of his eyes. "I bought them yesterday when I got the soup. Didn't your mom ever make you sip on ginger ale when you were sick?"

"Oh." Lance is kind of miffed to see that Keith looks begrudgingly impressed. As if Lance would take care of someone with a cold and _not_ think to bring the basics.

"I keep telling you," Lance replies. "I know what I'm doing here."

Keith spares another withering glance at Lance and mutters, "Debatable."

Lance is so offended that he nearly spits halfway through another sip. He makes a protesting noise as he swallows, then recaps his bottle. "Excuse me?" he demands. "All of this and you still don't trust me?"

Keith heaves a single, disbelieving laugh in the back of his throat. "Uh, no. That concoction you just made is the single nastiest thing I've eaten in my entire life. I think you've managed to counteract the medicine and actually make me sicker."

"Are you kidding?" Lance asks, gathering up the abandoned bowl and spoons from the table. He stubbornly ignores the fact that Keith kind of has a point, which is only managing to encourage the growing guilt slowly working its way back up his stomach "That probably cleared out your sinuses for you better than any medicine. You should be _thanking_ me."

"Right," Keith says. "Thanks for making me want to puke up my guts."

Lance gives him the finger, then turns on his heel and heads over to the sink. He pauses, glancing down at the dishes already sitting in the sink, then shrugs and sets down the new dishes alongside them. He can wash them later.

Then, grabbing his computer off of the counter, Lance says, "C'mon, I wanna hear the rest of this album."

He heads over to one of the couches and plops down in the corner. To his immense surprise, Keith follows him and sits down _right next to him_. It's not even like it's a loveseat or something. There's room for at least three people on the thing, and there's even an armchair right next to it—y'know, where Lance was _expecting_ Keith to sit.

But no. Now he's wedged against the armrest with Keith's legs mere _inches_ from his own. Lance isn't losing it. Of course not. Shut up.

He shifts—carefully, because _holy shit_ their hips are going to press together at any moment here—then settles his computer onto his lap and hits play.

As the album starts back up, Lance catches a small smile slowly returning to Keith's lips.

"What?" he teases, silently cursing his flip-flopping stomach.

Keith blinks and shifts uncomfortably, as if only just realizing what he'd been doing. "Nothing," he says, crossing his arms.

Lance can't help a suspicious grin as he settles deeper into the corner of the couch. "So," he says slowly, still keeping an eye on Keith, "which song is your favorite?"

"Favorite from this album, or favorite of all their stuff?" Keith asks.

"Of all of them," Lance replies. He's surprised when Keith scoffs.

"Seriously?" Keith asks. "You'd make me choose? I don't even know if I could."

"Fine, fine, from this album then," Lance amends.

Keith frowns in consideration. "Well, I really like 'Kitchen Sink' and 'Anathema.' And 'Car Radio' and 'Clear' are good too…" He trails off as he meets Lance's flat stare. With a defensive glare, he asks, "What?"

"That's, like, four songs," Lance points out. "Don't you have a favorite?"

If Lance didn't know any better, he would say that Keith's lips were currently twisted in a _pout_. It's a damn good thing that Keith Kogane is physically incapable of pouting, however, because Lance is not quite sure his heart could handle such an occurrence. As it is, this totally-not-a-pout is already wreaking havoc on his pulse.

"C'mon, are you trying to tell me that _you_ could pick a favorite song off of your favorite album?" Keith asks with exasperation.

"Irrelevant," Lance replies decisively. "We're talking about you. You really can't pick just one?"

"Fine," Keith replies, rolling his eyes. "I guessed I'd pick 'Anathema.'" Then, under his breath, he adds, "If you're going to twist my arm about it…"

Lance, being the benevolent being that he is, graciously ignores this little jab and simply asks, "Why?"

"I don't know, man," Keith replies, heaving an exasperated sigh. He gives Lance a sidelong look, then sighs again at Lance's expectant expression. "It just … well, y'know, has all the best of their songs. The lyrics are beautiful and perfectly capture how it feels to be unable to fall asleep and stop thinking. And it somehow walks this perfect line between being calm and charged. And the music itself just fits the lyrics and the feeling behind it all so well."

Keith falls silent, then shrugs. "I dunno, this is probably going to sound stupid, but…." He bites his lip, not quite meeting Lance's curious gaze. "There's just something reassuring about their songs, y'know? Like, I haven't even had to deal with half the stuff Tyler has, and there are plenty of people who go through much worse every day. But it's reassuring, I guess. To know that there are people dealing with awful thoughts and many of the same insecurities. And just, y'know, acknowledging it. Knowing that you're not alone and someone else has felt that way too and gets it…."

He trails off into silence. For a moment, Lance can't grasp onto any words even remotely decent enough to respond with. Because he hadn't expected anything like this—a raw, honest peek at Keith's thoughts and insecurities. He feels blindsided.

He can see Keith fidget as the pause only grows, and Lance finally manages to push out a simple, "Yeah." Keith glances over, and Lance gives him a slanted, bittersweet smile. "Makes sense to me."

"Anyways," Keith replies, straightening his shoulders and looking a bit sheepish. "Like I keep saying, literally all their stuff is amazing, and you should shut your big trap and listen."

"Yeah, yeah," Lance replies, rolling his eyes. Nonetheless, he settles back further against the couch, pulls his feet up onto the cushion, rests his laptop between his legs and his chest, and ups the volume a bit as the next song comes on. And then he _listens_.

Because Keith is right—the lyrics truly are amazing, even in the few songs that don't catch his interest quite as quickly as the first couple. With each passing song, he finds himself falling more and more in love with the album.

Lance isn't quite sure whether he should be surprised by this or not. On the one hand, he already loved all of the Twenty One Pilots songs from the radio, so it's hardly shocking that he likes their other stuff. That said, he's a bit amazed by just _how much_ he loves their music. It's not difficult to see exactly why Keith is such a huge fan.

Lance pays close attention to the songs Keith pointed out, especially when "Kitchen Sink" and "Anathema" come on back to back.

They're good, unsurprisingly, and Lance thinks he can kind of understand what Keith means. The topics are heavy, and yet the songs are entrancing and oddly reassuring.

Lance opens his mouth to say as much as "Anathema" ends, but is stopped short by Keith bumping against his arm. Lance looks over in concern, only to find Keith's eyes closed, head leaning into his shoulder.

The realization leaves too many complicated, warring emotions clawing at Lance's throat. His first thought is that Keith looks so… so… _unguarded_. It's both sweet and a little unsettling. Especially because Lance's _second_ thought is that Keith is so dumb. He didn't realize that the guy was still feeling like such shit. And even though _Keith_ is the one who insistently denied this fact, Lance can't help but feel guilty again. _Especially_ now that he's fed Keith such a puke-worthy lunch.

Argh, see? This is _exactly_ why Keith should just speak up more. Lance isn't a freaking mind-reader or anything. He can't just _look_ at Keith and automatically understand what the guy needs.

Hell, up until just yesterday, Lance didn't really know _anything_ about the guy, apparently. Which, given his long-standing crush, is actually more than a touch depressing.

Lance leans back a little, careful not to jostle Keith too much. The next song is playing, and a few of the words catch Lance's attention.

" _I will make you believe you are lovely._ "

Lance bites his lip, hating himself for latching onto the lyrics. As far as he can tell, the song isn't even really about crushes or anything. And yet, glancing down at the soft curve of Keith's nose and the way his hair is brushed across his pale cheek, Lance feels his stomach drop away in a concerning and delightful way.

 _Jesus, this was much easier to deal with when I thought he was just a huge, annoyingly, hot jerk_ , Lance thinks to himself. _So much less complicated_.

And, of course, so much easier to hide his thoughts.

Grimacing, Lance shifts a little more so that Keith's head will rest in a more comfortable position. Then, realizing what he's doing, Lance reaches down to his pocket to wriggle out his phone—anything to distract him from the sudden desire to pat Keith's—dumb, _stupid_ —mullet that is currently inching its way into his thoughts.

He manages to slip out his phone and finds a couple missed texts lighting up his screen. The first message is from his mom, and makes Lance's stomach tighten uncertainly.

 **Bruja (10:29)** : Hey hon, hope your friend's feeling better. Should I pick you up later?

Lance stares at the screen for a while, chewing at his lip. He glances over at Keith, who has somehow managed to nestle more firmly against his shoulder.

He doesn't know what to do. Except, well… Lance is pretty sure he's already come to a decision, whether he meant to or not.

He watches Keith a moment more, feeling the way he subtly shifts with each snot-clogged breath. Then, which a sigh, Lance turns back to his phone.

 **Lance (12:08):** no hes still not 100%

 **Lance (12:08):** apparently hes gonna be stuck all alone at the dorm over break

 **Lance (12:08):** ill just hang here instead

He hits send and grips his phone tighter, staring at the last text. Somehow, it feels like this decision should be monumental, overwhelming, _something_. Instead, it just … is. He can't even find it in himself to be surprised by it—not really. It's almost anti-climactic, except it's not really disappointing either. It doesn't make sense. Then again, Lance is fairly sure his mind has long since thrown all sense to the wind where Keith is concerned.

His phone beeps and Lance starts, jostling Keith in the process. He glances worriedly at Keith and is relieved to see that the guy is still out. Breathing a little easier, he looks down at his phone.

 **Bruja (12:09):** Okay, if you're sure.

Keiths' hair is soft and warm against his arm. Lance is still reining in the urge to give it a pat.

He doesn't even have to look over at Keith to know that he doesn't have a choice—not really. He can't leave Keith here, even for just a day. Even if Keith _weren't_ sick, the thought of him hanging in his room all alone over the long weekend….

 **Lance (12:11):** yeah im sure

 **Lance (12:11):** ill come home some other weekend instead

Lance closes the conversation with his mom and opens up the other unread messages.

 **Hunk-cules (10:32):** hey dude, made it to Hawaii in one piece!

 **Hunk-cules (10:32):** missed this place so much.

 **Hunk-cules (10:32):** might be tempted to move here if my annoying best friend didn't live so far away.

Lance can't help a wry grin, wishing he could give Hunk a solid punch in the side in return—a totally loving punch, of course.

 **Lance (12:11):** oh come on you know you love me

 **Lance (12:12):** but thats fucking rad glad ur having fun

The song changes again, and Lance carefully adjusts his laptop volume down a bit so that it won't wake Keith. He stops suddenly, glancing down at Keith as a thought occurs to him. Then he grabs his phone and shoots another message.

 **Lance (12:13):** btw

 **Lance (12:13):** did u know your idiot roommate is staying at the dorm the ENTIRE break?

Lance sets his phone on the end table next to the couch and turns his attention back to the music. There's still four songs left, but he's getting close to the end at this point.

Halfway through the third song, his phone beeps again.

 **Hunk-cules (12:20):** thanks man

 **Hunk-cules (12:20):** and yeah, didn't I tell you that?

Lance stares blankly at his screen for a moment. Because, seriously? Lance is one hundred percent sure he would have remembered Hunk telling him something like that. He would never admit it out loud, but he tends to pay close attention whenever Hunk mentions stuff about his roommate. For … reasons.

 **Lance (12:20):** uh no

 **Lance (12:20):** u totally didnt

 **Lance (12:20):** did u know he was sick tues and didnt bother to tell any1?

 **Hunk-cules (12:21):** oh jeez that sucks.

 **Hunk-cules (12:21):** how did you find out?

 **Lance (12:21):** he didnt show up to lab so I checked on him

 **Lance (12:21):** he didnt even have any meds

 **Lance (12:21):** like wtf

 **Hunk-cules (12:22):** did you make sure he was stocked up before you left?

Lance bites his lip again, staring at the message in front of him. How on earth is he supposed to answer that? Because, yeah, this is _Hunk_. Lance knows he can tell him anything. But that doesn't mean he won't have to deal with Hunk's response.

Lance hesitates, then finally types up a reply.

 **Lance (12:24):** ... im still here

He's barely even lowered his phone before it begins to beep incessantly.

 **Hunk-cules (12:24):** dude.

 **Hunk-cules (12:24):** dude.

 **Hunk-cules (12:24):** wait.

 **Hunk-cules (12:24):** you mean to tell me

 **Hunk-cules (12:24):** that you're staying at the dorm

 **Hunk-cules (12:24):** … just so that Keith won't be lonely?

See? _See?_ Not that Lance would do any different if the tables were turned, but _still_.

 **Lance (12:24):** *so he wont die from his own stupidity

 **Lance (12:24):** ftfy

 **Lance (12:25):** the guys hopeless

 **Hunk-cules (12:25):** ...

 **Hunk-cules (12:25):** dude you have it so bad.

Lance is so exasperated that he actually groans out loud, clutching his phone tighter and wishing he had a wall to bang his head against. He punches his reply into his phone with a tight-lipped frown.

 **Lance (12:25):** fu k off

 **Lance (12:25):** seriously

 **Lance (12:25):** …

 **Lance (12:25):** … yeah

 **Lance (12:25):** i know

 **Lance (12:25):** omg save me

 **Lance (12:25):** im so doomedd

 **Hunk-cules (12:26):** hahaha well enjoy your break together ;D

Lance sticks out his tongue at the screen, ignoring the butterflies that are stirring to life in his middle. Because _fuck_. They basically _are_ spending their break _together_ , aren't they? Like, not _together_ together, like, dating or going somewhere or anything. As nice as that would be. But, like, still... _together_. Lance should _not_ be so overwhelmingly happy about this fact.

The album on the computer screen comes to an end, the last notes of a sweet ukelele fading into silence. Lance takes a deep breath and closes his laptop. He leans over slightly to set it on the end table, and Keith mumbles in his sleep in response. Lance pauses, glancing down to make sure that he didn't wake him. But Keith merely nestles his head against Lance's arm before settling again.

Lance kind of wishes that he could stay here all afternoon, just like this, pretending like it's totally normal for Keith Kogane to cuddle up with him on the couch. But an idea has been niggling at the back of his mind over the past hour, and Lance knows there are more important things that need to be done.

Still… A few more moments can't hurt, right?

Before his mind can convince him this is a bad idea, Lance reaches over and gently rests his palm on the crown of Keith's head. He radiates a gentle warmth—although luckily nothing like the hot fever Lance had felt yesterday.

Oh-so-carefully, Lance ruffles his fingers through Keith's black locks, amazed at how infuriatingly soft they are.

 _Shit_ , he really _could_ just spend an afternoon like this, couldn't he?

Not trusting himself, Lance draws a firm line in the sand and slowly lifts his hand back up…

Well, okay. Just a _little_ longer. Seriously.

He allows himself ten seconds. Counting slowly, Lance lowers his fingers back down into Keith's hair, scratching softly. Keith murmurs—a contented sound—and Lance freezes in place, feeling like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Or, well, like a kid caught with his hand in his crush's hair. Oh my god. What the fuck is he even doing?

Lance gently retracts his hand and then slowly eases himself out from under Keith, laying the guy on his side on the couch. Lance's entire right side feels empty and cold in his absence, and he can't help but notice that Keith shivers slightly as he snuggles against the cushion.

More than anything, _that_ is what finally kicks Lance into motion. He grabs his laptop from the side table, gives Keith one last glance, then heads back to his room.

...

Keith wakes up and he is _not_ in his bed. Or any other bed, for that matter. He sits up quickly, head spinning precariously as he looks frantically about, only to realize that he's on the couch in the lounge. His visceral fear settles into a calmer confusion, then suddenly gives way to horror.

Lance. He had been hanging out with Lance. And he had _fallen asleep_?!

 _Way to go_ , he tells himself angrily. _Way to take a perfectly great opportunity and completely fuck it up_.

Who falls asleep in the middle of the day? After _sleeping in_? Lance probably thinks he's a complete loser now. Or maybe even that Keith didn't want to spend time with him—that he was _so boring_ that Keith couldn't help but fall asleep.

An actual, audible growl is just working its way up his throat when Keith suddenly realizes there's a blanket covering him. Surprised, he glances down and discovers that he is covered in _Lance's_ comforter. It's got to be—it's the same blanket Lance had dragged into his room last night, isn't it?

Keith raises the blanket to his stuffed nose and sniffs suspiciously. It's scent is an odd mixture of light citrus and the rather sharp smell of sweat and sleep—so _completely_ Lance-like that Keith is left with no room for doubt. The scent _should_ be gross, but Keith finds it strangely heady. Another sniff sets his pulse racing—a fact that Keith doesn't want to examine too closely, because he'll be damned if he admits that he is attracted to the smell of Lance's _sweat_.

He tears his face away from the comforter and glances around the room, suddenly aware that _someone could have easily seen him_. But the lounge is completely empty, with no sight of Lance or anyone else.

Keith sits all the way up, still feeling uneasy. He wraps Lance's comforter around his shoulders, trying to draw some reassurance from its warmth. Surely Lance can't be _that_ upset with him if he left Keith his blanket… right?

The bottle of Dayquil catches his eye, sitting on the end table next to the couch, and Keith can't help but heave a single chuckle under his breath. He scootches a little closer to armrest, eyebrows rising at the slip of paper under the bottle.

 _Went to the store._

 _Be back in a bit._

 _Make sure to take meds at 2, you dumbass._

The message draws an outright laugh from Keith's chest, followed by a series of coughs as the action stirs up some residual phlegm.

Keith is half tempted to just not bother. After all, aside from his dripping nose—and, apparently, a slight, lingering cough—he's feeling one heck of a lot better. But, well… it really _is_ cute that Lance is such a mother hen. And, though he hates to admit it, he has a feeling that Lance will be able to tell if Keith is lying with some strange, Allura-like sixth sense.

So, with a sigh, Keith twists off the cap and downs another dose. Then, still grimacing as he tries unsuccessfully to swallow away the strong aftertaste, he pulls out his phone and shoots Lance a text.

 **Keith (3:04):** You still out shopping?

He leans back on the couch, tapping his finger idly as he waits for Lance's response.

He's just beginning to think that _maybe_ that was a stupid question—because _duh_ , of course Lance is still out shopping, or else he'd be _here_ , right? … Right?—when his phone lights up with a reply.

 **Lance (3:06):** im nea r th east door

 **Lance (3:06):** can u getit 4 me?

 **Keith (3:06):** On my way.

Keith slides his phone back into his pocket and stands up, drawing Lance's comforter a little more tightly around his shoulders. Then he heads out of the lounge and towards the stairs at the end of the hallway.

As he heads down a floor, a small corner of Keith's mind can't help but wonder just _what_ , exactly, Lance picked up at the store. If he's bought any more mac 'n cheese, Keith might just strangle him.

He rounds the corner of the stairwell and peaks curiously at the thin windows along the east door, only to find Lance staring back at him, face pressed directly against the glass.

" _Jesus fucking_ —!"

Keith hops back, heart hammering from the shock. He can see—though not hear—Lance laughing at him from the other side, which only succeeds in dragging a heavy frown down Keith's lips.

Keith throws Lance the finger and says with exaggerated lip movements, "Fuck. You." Then he turns on his heel, as if heading back to the stairs.

There's muffled yelling and several loud thunks. Keith glances back to see Lance frantically kicking at the floor-length window. _Tch_. Serves the idiot right.

Eyebrows raised, Keith walks back over and makes a show of opening the door. "Yes?" he asks in his most nonchalant voice.

"Screw you," Lance breathes, shooting Keith a nasty glare. "These bags are fucking _heavy_."

Keith looks down at Lance's arms. Which are _completely_ laden with bags upon bags upon bags.

Keith is pretty sure his mouth is hanging open, torn between not believing his eyes and finding this entire situation completely hysterical.

"What the _hell_?" he breathes. He looks back up to Lance, who looks _smug_ of all things—Keith doesn't know what the proper response here _should_ be, but it is definitely not that. Keith takes a second look at all the bags and adds, "How much did you buy?"

"Just shut up and help me carry all this," Lance replies, nudging Keith back so he can finally get inside. "My arms hurt."

Keith can believe that. As he lets the door fall closed behind Lance, he shoots the bags another skeptical glance—Lance has got _both_ arms loaded right up to the elbow.

"Here," Keith says, offering his arms out. Lance, however, has other ideas, and instead squats down to let the bags rest on the ground. He wriggles his arms free from all the loops and sighs in relief.

"You can take _that_ half," Lance tells Keith stubbornly. He nods to the bags on his left. "I had to carry that heavy motherfucker all the way here and I am _not_ carrying it up those damn stairs."

"Yeah, yeah, okay," Keith replies, rolling his eyes at Lance's dramatics. He tucks the corners of Lance's comforter under his armpits so that it won't fall off, then gathers the bags into his hands and heaves himself up. They _are_ heavy, but somehow Lance is capable of turning everything into the apocalypse. "You ready?"

Lance winces as he rubs his sore arms through his coat. Then, with a deep breath, he nods with utter seriousness, looking for all the world as though he's about to step onto a battlefield. "Yeah, let's go."

Keith fights off a grin—because, honestly? He _really_ doesn't want to encourage the guy—and leads the way back up to the second floor.

As he trudges up the steps, he says, "You know, you really didn't have to do this. I told you I was planning on going."

With Lance behind him, Keith can't see his face, but the loud scoff that Lance heaves is plenty expressive as it is.

"Uh, first off," Lance replies, sounding utterly scandalized, "you're sick."

Keith rolls his eyes. "So? What does that—"

"And it's cold," Lance says loudly, speaking over Keith. " _And_ it's still threatening to rain. _And_ you should just focus on getting better."

Keith struggles to come up with a good enough come back to fling in Lance's face. But the words stick in his throat, caught up by the almost painful way his chest is expanding in the face of Lance's rather chivalrous concern.

"And anyways," Lance pushes on, "the idea of living off of the vending machines doesn't sound particularly appetizing to me either. Though I wouldn't be opposed if you want to throw a twenty my way to help cover all this."

"Yeah, of course," Keith replies.

Keith heads into the kitchen, then lets the bags settle back onto the floor. He rubs at his sore wrists, ignoring the satisfied _I told you so_ smirk Lance is shooting his way. Yeah, fine, okay. So the bags _do_ friggin hurt.

Lance all but _drops_ his share of the bags on the tiles, right next to Keith's. Then he stretches up and bends backward, hands on his hips. He's still got his jacket and gloves on, his face rosie red from the chill and twisted up in pleasured relief as he stretches his back. Keith's heart is suddenly pounding in his throat.

Mouth dry, Keith quickly drops his gaze to the floor and starts sorting through the bags to see what Lance bought.

Or, more accurately, to discover what Lance _hasn't_ bought.

"Seriously, how much did you buy?" Keith repeats incredulously. He picks up the first bag and pulls out a bag of sour cream and cheddar chips, a bag of pretzel rods, and a jar of queso. The next bag he unloads is filled with nachos and two boxes of frozen mozzarella sticks.

He looks up to find Lance's lips twisted in displeasure. "What?" Lance asks defensively. "I'm just being prepared."

"For _what_?" Keith asks. He frowns as Lance pulls out no less than _six_ bags of pizza rolls. _Six_. "A natural disaster?"

"Rude," Lance snaps. "You haven't paid me yet, mullet. I can still banish you to the vending machines."

Keith mutters under his breath, bending to pick up another bag. It's heavy, weighed down by a half gallon of milk and a thing of orange juice.

Keith lifts them up and Lance glares at the containers accusingly. "I hope you and Gina are happy," Lance sniffs. "That damn thing nearly toppled me over it was so heavy."

"I'm sure Gina will thank you personally for your generosity," Keith replies derisively. He opens the fridge door, placing the milk right next to Gina's and the orange juice on one of the shelves.

"Here, toss these in too," Lance says.

Keith looks up to see the boxes of mozzarella sticks flying towards his face. " _What the_ —!"

He manages to get his arms up in enough time to block his face. The boxes slam against his wrists and drop to the floor. He lowers his arms slowly, glaring at Lance's gaping face.

" _What the hell was that_!?" Lance yells.

"Me!?" Keith retorts. "That's what I should be asking _you_! What the hell, man?"

"You're supposed to _catch_ them!" Lance snipes back. He mimicks an underhanded toss. "Like, _Here, catch!_ " Then, shifting position, he mimicks catching something neatly in his arms. "And, _Oh, nice toss!_ "

Keith pins him with a blank stare. "How the _fuck_ am I supposed to catch _boxes_ when you _hurl them at my face_?"

" _Psssh_ ," Lance says dismissively, waving his hand. "Don't take it out on me just because you suck. Just put the damn mozz sticks away before they get all soggy."

" _Damn idiot_ ," Keith grumbles under his breath, gathering up the slightly bent up boxes and sliding them into the freezer. Then, still glaring, he says, "Here, pass me those pizza rolls too. _Pass_."

"Yeah, yeah," Lance replies sarcastically, handing them over one at a time. "Don't worry—lesson learned."

Keith somehow manages to shove the last of the pizza rolls into the freezer—seriously, does Lance not comprehend that this is a _shared_ fridge? He's just lucky that so many people cleared out their crap before the long weekend.

He glances at Lance and says, "Please tell me you don't have any more frozen goods."

"Nah," Lance replies, "but you can throw these in the fridge."

He hands Keith an entire bag of apples. Keith is so surprised that, for a moment, he simply stares at the bag in his hands.

"A little late in the season, but they were on sale," Lance replies with a shrug. Keith would actually be convinced that it really isn't anything special, were it not for the fact that Lance doesn't quite meet his gaze.

His suspicions are only further raised as Lance hands him a bag of baby carrots, a pre-prepared bag of salad, and… a raw head of cauliflower?

Keith keeps his lips locked tight, afraid that saying even something little might somehow offset the strangely taught balance stretching across the kitchen.

"We'll leave these out," Lance says decisively. He sets a bunch of bananas on the countertop next to the chip bags and a couple jars of peanut butter and jelly. Keith watches with barely contained exasperation as Lance opens a cupboard and, seeing it empty, shoves a bag filled with ramen and Chef Boyardee in. Then, patting his hands, he declares, "There—done."

Keith looks around the kitchen and sees that they have, indeed, unpacked everything. There are a few things still left on the counter, and Lance has one last bag in his hand, but everything else has been put away. Keith's still not quite sure _how_ they're supposed to eat all of this over the next five days.

"Okay," Lance declares. "I dunno about you, but I am _starving_."

"Yeah, same," Keith admits. Quite frankly, the sriracha with a side of mac has done little to tide him over.

He meets Lance's gaze for a moment, considering. Then, with a sly grin, Lance asks, "You grab the food, I grab the laptop?"

Keith almost laughs at how ridiculous this all is, but it's a surprisingly wonderful feeling. Even the bickering—which normally eats away at his nerves with astonishing speed—is leaving him feeling less irritated and rather oddly elated. Returning Lance's grin, he says, "Sure, bring it to my room."

Lance shoots him a wink and heads off—a remarkably fortunate turn of events, since Keith's face is suddenly beet red.

He twirls back to the fridge, disgusted with himself for letting one of Lance's dumb, trademark _winks_ get the better of him. He's always _hated_ it when Lance winks. The guy might be ridiculously handsome, but it's such an egotistical and cringe-worthy action that Keith has always assumed that only idiots would would be swayed by it.

Apparently he is one such idiot.

But maybe, just maybe, being an idiot is worth it. A little bit. Because Keith can't recall ever feeling quite like _this_. He's not even sure how to describe what _this_ is. Jittery and fluttery and everything that he kind of wishes he wasn't feeling because it's too much all at once and more than he wants to deal with. And yet it's warm and he can't stop grinning and he is such a goner.

Seriously, at what point did spending an entire afternoon in his room with _Lance McClain_ , chowing down on food, and binging cringey reality tv become such an appealing prospect?

Despite himself, Keith can't find it in himself to be upset by this.

He gives his head a firm shake, returning his attention to the more pressing matter at hand: out of the huge stockpile that Lance brought back, what should he grab as a snack? What should be a simple decision is made far too difficult by the ridiculously wide variety of possibilities.

Eventually, Keith settles on grabbing two of the bags of pizza rolls (because seriously, they need to make some room in that over-stuffed freezer) and the bunch of bananas. Then, hitching up Lance's comforter, Keith hurries back to his dorm in the hopes of beating Lance there.

He's surprised to find the door unlocked even though the room empty. Until he remembers the very alarming display he had witnessed before he had hurried to the kitchen for lunch—namely, Lance's tight, jean-clad ass pushed up and swaying on his bed as Lance had bent over to unplug his laptop cord. As if Keith could have stuck around long enough to lock his door after _that_ little show and maintained any remnant of composure.

As it is, Keith _still_ has to fight off a threatening blush just remembering it. To distract himself from reliving such ridiculous—and terribly enticing—thoughts, he busies himself with taking out a plate and heating up half a bag of pizza rolls while he waits for Lance to return.

Once the microwave is humming, Keith turns around and heads over to his popcorn-strewn bed with an exasperated sigh. He bends over one corner, ready to strip off the sheets and shake them out, then pauses.

Lance's pillow. It's still sitting there, right in front of his face at this angle. Come to think of it, it's been sitting on Keith's bed, right next to his own pillow, since Lance shoved his way into his room last night. For some reason, Keith can't help thinking that it looks _good_ there, the blue a nice companion to his own red pillowcase.

Which is a stupid thought. Because seriously? They're fucking _pillows_.

Keith does his best to ignore the way the persistent warmth in his chest swells each time he glances at them.

He's halfway through shaking out his blankets—and scattering popcorn _everywhere_ , goddammit—when the door is thrown open and Lance barges in.

Keith shoots an incredulous look over his shoulder. Really, is this guy _ever_ going to knock? Did the changing comment mean _nothing_ to him? Because Lance had _seemed_ pretty taken off guard by the realization that he might walk in on Keith butt-naked. And yet Lance doesn't have the decency to look even _remotely_ ashamed as he walks right past Keith, crunching the fallen kernels beneath his feet.

A part of Keith wonders if Lance truly wouldn't care if he walked in on Keith with his boxer-briefs down around his ankles. But a much larger part of him is beginning to suspect that Lance, quite frankly, is just too air-headed to stop and _think_ about what may be on the other side of a door before bursting through.

This suspicion is far less worrying than the fact that Keith finds that—despite his initial shock—he actually doesn't mind. Lance just walking into his room unannounced, that is. It _should_ be bothering the _hell_ out of him. Y'know, the way it bugged him yesterday morning? And afternoon? And earlier today? And yet, instead, Keith can't help but feel that the situation is almost kind of … nice.

Yup, confirmed. In the span of 24 hours, Keith has somehow managed to become an idiot.

The microwave beeps, and Lance happily chirps, "Got it!"

Keith grunts in response, far more focused on wrangling his sheets back over his mattress. As soon as he's got the loose sheet laid down, Lance scoots past him—plate in one hand, laptop in the other—and bounces onto the bed.

"Ready?" Lance asks, wriggling so that his back is against the wall, facing Hunk's side of the room. He looks ridiculously excited—and far more adorable than he has any right to be.

Keith glances skeptically at the popcorn adorning his carpet as he tosses the pillows back onto his bed. "Uh, no? You made such a friggin mess in here last night. I'm gonna sweep it up, first."

Lance looks up from his laptop with dark, narrowed eyes. "Excuse me?" he demands. "I am one hundred percent confident that _you_ threw several _fistfuls_ at me."

Keith can't help it—he outright snorts. "Are you fucking kidding me? You were throwing kernels the entire time!"

"Whatever, loser," Lance replies dismissively. "Just get over here and sit down. I am _not_ waiting to start the video while you friggin _vacuum the floor_."

Keith makes a show of rolling his eyes, but he climbs over next to Lance nonetheless. As he twitches Lance's blanket to cover his legs, he catches a glimpse of the laptop screen. It's still pulled up to YouTube, with the video for _Regional_ prompting another play. Keith blinks at the screen, feeling an odd flash of satisfaction. So Lance _had_ finished listening to the album, even after Keith had fallen asleep. It's a little thing—tiny, really—but it leaves a small smile itching its way onto Keith's lips.

Lance navigates to the Lifetime website, then looks over to Keith. "Where'd we figure we left off?"

Keith squints at the screen. "I'm pretty sure we're on episode five."

"Oh, right!" Lance replies excitedly, eyes glinting. "Okay, time for the team challenge."

Lance balances the computer so Keith can see, starts the episode, and then reaches over and grabs two pizza rolls.

Keith settles back against the wall. He can't help thinking to himself that this is so … strange. He would never have pictured spending a significant amount of his break watching _reality tv_ , of all things. And certainly not _enjoying it_. Silently chuckling to himself, Keith reaches down and pops a pizza roll into his mouth.

As the contestants pick their teams, Lance grows increasingly excited. "Aw, look!" he croons. "Alex and Rik are such good buddies. They're gonna work great together."

"Dude, seriously?" Keith asks, his lips twisting into a frown. "After _all_ that whining about Rik last night?"

"Oh, shut up," Lance replies amicably. "They're buddies now, it's all cool. They've totally got this in the bag."

"But Erin and Laurance are on the other team," Keith points out. "I wouldn't count them out just yet."

"Okay, _but_ " Lance replies sarcastically. "They have to do a sales pitch. Which is, like, Alex's forte! He's totally going to rock this."

"Yeah, I suppose that's true." Keith watches as, on screen, Alex's group puts together a solid pitch, while Erin's team…

"Oh my god. They're a mess!" Lance practically crows.

He's totally right. Keith watches skeptically as they try to pull together a cohesive plan. Lance's opinion is only further reinforced once the pitches begin. Alex stands up and delivers a beautiful, polished pitch, totally prepared for all of the questions the investors throw at him.

"He's so…" Lance gestures vaguely. "Business savvy. Like, why the fuck is that so attractive?"

Keith snorts. "I'm pretty sure it's the guy and not the attitude," he replies. "I find it hard to believe you'd find an accountant that thrilling, even if they were the epitome of business savvy."

"Maybe if they're an accountant with cool piercings," Lance argues back. Keith quirks an eyebrow, at a loss for words to rebut Lance's scenario.

Under his gaze, Lance folds. "Yeah, okay. Maybe that's stretching it a bit. But seriously, Alex is on point. And he's so soothing. I could listen to his voice all day."

Meanwhile, Erin's team comes out with Dexter leading the presentation. "They really are a lot more unorganized," Keith observes. "I mean, Dexter's doing a pretty good job given that he doesn't have experience in this. But he's just not at the same experience level as Alex."

" _Mmm_ -hm," Lance agrees. "But he is doing a great job, all things considered."

Keith almost rolls his eyes when he hears the teams have to pick a name. "Seriously, how old are they?" he asks pointedly.

"They're making a _brand_ ," Lance points out. "Duh. They need a name."

As soon as he says this, Dexter's team decides to call themselves Team Button Bag. Keith snorts so hard that he nearly chokes on the pizza roll in his mouth.

"Oh my god, are they serious!?" Lance asks, laughing so hard that he bends over double. "That's the most ridiculous name…"

"Alex's Team Unity really isn't much better," Keith observes. "Seriously, this whole name thing is dumb."

To Keith's surprise, the judges wind up awarding most of their money to the Button Bags.

" _What the hell_?!" Lance yells at the screen. "What do you _mean_ Team unity doesn't have "as strong" a concept!?"

"I mean, Nina and Heidi have some good points," Keith concedes. "Team Button Bag has more color."

"Yeah, and less cohesiveness!"

Keith sighs loudly. "Yeah, but they're investors. They need to look at this from a money and marketability standpoint. Like Heidi said, Team Button Bag was more "fashion forward.'"

"But doesn't that also mean they're a bigger risk!?" Lance argues.

"Dude, you're just salty cause Alex got less money." Keith pins Lance with a flat look.

"Uh, hell _yeah_ I am!" Lances gestures wildly at the screen. "Alex's pitch was better, their design is more cohesive, _and_ Alex is a total cutie!"

"Yeah, yeah," Keith replies. He waves a hand to shush Lance as the teams take off to Mood to choose their fabrics.

Despite the flurry of contestants running around the store, Keith finds himself honing in on Alex, specifically. He kind of feels like he should be… he doesn't even know. Frustrated with Alex? Or at least not like the man. All Lance does is talk about him. But somehow, Keith can't find it in himself to dislike the guy. He really is a strong candidate and a good leader.

Though that also doesn't stop Keith from noticing how very _different_ Alex is from him. You know, from a purely objective standpoint. Alex is outgoing and good at talking with people and even comforts his competitors. And Keith is … not. In all honesty, Alex is almost more like…

"Oh my god," Keith says suddenly, grabbing Lance's arm. "Lance."

"What?" he replies, glancing at Keith in confusion. After all, there's nothing much interesting happening on the screen.

"Alex."

"Yeah?"

"He's just like Hunk," Keith says.

Lance frowns and pins Keith with a skeptical look. "What? No. What on Earth are you talking about?"

"Yeah, he totally is," Keith replies firmly. "He's super nice and helps everyone out when they need it. But he's also not above being lowkey snarky, especially when someone gets on his nerves."

Lance's jaw drops, his eyes widening slightly. "Oh my fucking god," he says quietly. "You're totally right."

Keith leans back against the wall, feeling smug and, oddly, rather reassured. He's not even sure why.

But then Lance is slapping Keith's leg excitedly. "Tim's here! Time for his feedback!"

They watch as Tim rips both teams' designs to shreds.

After Tim leaves, Keith quietly says, "Oh."

"Oh _shit_ ," Lance breathes. "I'm getting worried. But Alex is confident! I believe in you Alex, you got this!"

"Jesus, quiet down!" Keith admonishes. Though, truth be told, he's holding back his own laughter. "It's not like they can hear you."

But things start looking up—Alex's team has things completely together, while Team Button Bag is running around like a bunch of headless chickens. Still, Team Button Bag has a few tricks up their sleeve. Keith gasps softly when one of the models tries on Laurance's leather jacket.

"Shit," Keith says, eyes glued to the screen. "Just _look_ at that thing. It's gorgeous."

"It really is," Lance agrees.

"I would wear the crap out of that thing," Keith admits. He's half disappointed that it's not available for sale, even if his broke-ass self probably couldn't afford it in the first place. "Like, wow."

"Yeah," Lance replies. "You could definitely rock that jacket."

Keith freezes, eyeing Lance from the corner of his eye so it's not _quite_ so obvious how completely taken off guard he is. He can't stop himself from asking, "You think?"

"Yeah, for sure," Lance replies. "You got the right style for something like that."

Keith purposely leans back against the wall, hoping that Lance won't catch the way his cheeks are starting to heat up.

Somehow, in the end, Team Button Bag manages to get all of their looks pulled together in enough time to go onto the runway. Keith shakes his head as he watches the parade of outfits go by. "I don't get it," he says. "How does Erin always manage to pull off something last minute and make it look polished?"

"I dunno, man," Lance replies. "She's, like, seriously good."

They watch quietly as the judges announce the winners, and…

"WHAT?!" Lance _screeches_. It's a damn good thing there aren't many residents left, because _ow_. "What do you mean Button Bag wins!? What the fuck?"

Honestly, Keith is surprised too. "I mean, Alex's team worked really well together."

"They _did_!" Lance agrees loudly. "How was it even close!?"

As the judges talk about how much they love Team Button Bag's designs, Lance groans. "Jesus. I love you, Erin, but seriously. You use _so much yellow_!"

"I mean, the judges have a point," Keith says. "The color really stands out."

Lance whirls on Keith and gives him a pointed _glare_. "Quit standing up for them when I'm trying to grieve here!"

He's being so overdramatic that Keith actually laughs out loud, earning him another glare.

When Alex's team comes up, the judges rip them into literal shreds.

"Oh god," Lance moans, hands dragging down on his face. "Just kill me now. Watching them up there is horrifying."

"Seriously," Keith replies. He winces as Alex's dress draws particularly strong criticism.

As their critiques come to an end, Alex steps forward and begins to explain to the judges just how proud he is of all of his teammates for working together so well, even if they missed the mark.

" _Alex_ ," Lance whines. "Stop, Alex, what are you _doing_. He sounds like he _expects_ to be the one who's going home."

Keith nods in silent agreement. Things really aren't looking great.

The judges ask each team member who should be sent home, and Lance covers his eyes like a freaking five year old. "I can't watch this," he groans, his leg shaking impatiently. "I can't, I can't, I can't."

The seven teammates run down the line. When Rik picks Alex, Lance's moaning grows louder. "Rik you traitor!" he yells. "I thought you two were buds!"

The next up, Roberi, is close to tears. He looks the judges dead in the eye and tells them to send him home.

"Oh. My. God."

Keith looks over to see Lance's jaw falling open. "Roberi! I can't believe he would put his neck out like that!"

Cornelius, the next in line, tearfully chokes out that he should be the one to go home. And Nathalia, right next to him, is outright crying while she tells the judges to send her home instead.

"Jesus," Keith breathes, feeling stressed just watching how heartbreaking it is for them all. "Are all the team challenges like this?"

"That's just it!" Lance says. His leg is still bouncing in clear agitation. "This _never_ happens. But they're just such a good team that they're all willing to take the fall instead of having one of their teammates go out."

Mah-Jing, the second to last, stalls. "Oh my god, _no_!" Lance yells. "Mah-Jing! You can't do this! He's totally going to say Alex isn't he!?"

Sure enough, Mah-Jing picks Alex. Lance literally howls in response. Keith watches in awe as Alex nods at Mah-Jing's decision. "Alex, stop that!" Lance cries. "Don't act like he's right! He's not right!"

But that's just it. With a sunken stomach, Keith has pretty much already come to a clear conclusion who is going to be out this round. This is only confirmed when Alex tells the judges to send him home.

" _Don't be a hero, Alex_!" Lance wails. He shakes his computer a little more aggressively than Keith thinks is advisable. "Don't do it!"

Keith watches with quiet respect as Alex takes full responsibility for his team's failures. Because the truth of the matter is, even though he tried his best, Alex is definitely the one who sank the ship.

When Heidi asks Alex if he's giving up, Alex starts to choke up. He looks the judges head on and says, "I would love to stay here and show you what I have. But I have to take accountability."

"This stupid man!" Lance moans. "Why is he so perfect? _Goddammit Alex_!"

In the end, Alex gets axed. He smiles as the judges tell him. Keith watches with no small amount of awe as Alex maintains his poise like a champ and heads back to say goodbye to the other contestants. As soon as he gets to the back, almost everyone is in tears.

When Tim comes back to collect Alex, Lance suddenly gasps. "Wait!" he says, sounding a bit breathless. "Tim! He has one Tim Gunn save per season! There's still hope!"

Keith watches closely, surprised when even Tim gets choked up talking about Alex having to leave. "Oh gosh, he might actually do it," Keith replies.

Suddenly, Alex chimes in and thanks Tim personally. Pretty much in tears now, he talks about how Tim inspired him to get to where he is today, and that he owes so much of his career to him.

"Oh God," Lance says, voice wavering. "Alex is actually crying."

Keith glances over to see tears streaming down Lance's face as well.

"Uh, _you're_ crying," Keith points out. He watches Lance in concern. "Are you okay?"

"Oh, shush!" Lance replies angrily, swatting at Keith as he cries. "I can't deal with watching other people cry. I always wind up breaking down too. This is too much!"

Tim thanks Alex, then tells him to go pack up his stuff. The way Lance gasps, you would think he's just been stabbed in the stomach. " _Wait_!" he cries desperately. "Tim's not gonna save him!? Alex is _actually_ going home!? What the _fuuuck_! Alex, come back!"

Keith awkwardly pats Lance's knee as Alex packs up his supplies and leaves the show for good.

As the preview for the next show starts rolling, Lance wipes furiously at his face with the collar of his shirt. "This is bullshit. I'm so pissed."

"Yeah, that really sucks," Keith replies. He watches as Lance flops back against the wall with a groan. "You still up to watch more?"

"Yeah," Lance croaks. He swipes at one eye with the back of his wrist. "Just give me a moment."

Keith clenches his hands in Lance's blanket, wishing he could do something _helpful_ , instead of just pretending like he can't see how splotchy and tear-stained Lance's face is. He glances down at the empty plate, then looks back up.

"Want me to make some more pizza rolls?"

Lance looks up from pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes, a small, rather uncertain smile working its way onto his lips. With a joking tone and a still-wavering voice, he asks, "Is that even a question?"

Keith laughs as he pushes himself off of the bed. "No, I suppose it isn't."

...

They get through two more episodes before finally deciding to call it quits.

Keith stretches his arms up over his head, biting back a yawn with low-key irritation. He glances wistfully out the window. At some point along the way, the day has disappeared. Looking out into the dark, pervasive night and can't fight off an itching restlessness.

He's been stuck inside for two whole days. And especially now, with his stuffy nose finally easing and his throat not being torn to shreds, Keith wants to just get up and _do_ something. _Go_ somewhere. Do _anything_ so long as it doesn't involve sitting on his ass for another several hours.

Honestly, Keith's surprised that it's taken this long for his restlessness to creep up. Normally he can't even last a day of being sick before he's pushing his way out of the house in search of some way to release his pent up energy. He can't help but think that Lance's company bears no small amount of responsibility for his unusual patience.

Lance sighs and shuts his laptop, stealing Keith's attention away from the window. "So," he asks slowly, giving Keith a long look. "How you feeling?"

"I wanna go for a run," Keith replies.

Lance's face scrunches into a disbelieving scowl. "Are you _serious_?! Dude, you're sick! What the heck is _wrong_ with you?"

Keith frowns down at his lap and swats impatiently at Lance's comforter. "I'm not _that_ sick," he mumbles in reply.

Lance's glare darkens. "You had a fever this morning."

" _This morning_ ," Keith replies stubbornly. "I'm feeling a lot better now."

"It was friggin' _freezing_ out there earlier," Lance argues. "And it's _night_ now, so it's probably even colder. And still rainy. Are you an idiot?"

"Fine, _fine_ ," Keith says with growing exasperation. "I didn't say I'm going—just that I _want_ to. I'm tired of just lying around."

Lance rolls his eyes. "You've been sick for all of _two days_. Could you maybe chill?"

Keith fiddles grumpily with the blanket. "I'm not used to lying around for two whole days."

Lance makes a noise at the back of his throat, sounding half frustrated, half resigned. He sets his computer aside with a deep, exasperated breath. "How about, instead of driving yourself to exhaustion, we grab something to eat for dinner?"

"Eh, maybe," Keith says. "I'm not really that hungry."

"What!?" Lance squawks, mouth gaping. "Dude, we haven't eaten in _hours_. I'm _starving_."

"I mean, we had all those pizza rolls and popcorn," Keith replies. He's not really getting why Lance is making this into such a big deal.

Apparently the bafflement is mutual. "Obviously you're still a lot sicker than you think," Lance says decisively. "Seriously, it is _long_ past time for dinner."

This is, Keith realizes, a hopeless battle. So instead he merely gives a small shrug.

Lance _tsk_ s and shakes his head. "Whatever. _I'm_ gonna go grab something. I'll be back in a bit." He hops off the bed, then pauses to scrutinize Keith with a pinched glance. "You _sure_ you don't want anything?"

With a sigh, Keith gives up. "Fine," he replies. "If you're going, bring me back some of that salad."

"Want some ranch, too?" Lance asks.

Keith can't stop himself from rolling his eyes. "Uh, no. Just the salad."

Lance's eyebrows rise up towards his hairline, not bothering to reply as he turns around. Nonetheless, Keith _distinctly_ hears Lance mutter " _Friggin' carrot lover_ " under his breath as he walks out the door. Keith _would_ feel insulted, if it weren't for the fact that _Lance_ is the one who bought all of the produce in the first place. Besides, Keith is not going to complain about having actual food to eat instead of freeze-dried, processed junk.

He heaves a sigh and lies back against the wall, shooting the pitch-black window another glance.

It really _would_ be nice to get out. There's something particularly lovely about running at night, the cool wind licking against his face and his shoes echoing over the wet pavement. And who knows, maybe working off some of this restless energy would help Keith feel _better_ , even.

Keith's phone chirps in his jeans pocket, knocking him off of this—apparently scandalous—train of thought. He slides it out, blinking in surprise at the message lighting up his screen.

 **Hunk (8:12):** hey I heard you're sick. you doing okay?

Keith spends a moment wondering how on Earth Hunk found out, before it finally hits him that Lance probably said something. He's not sure why he's so surprised by this fact—from what Keith's heard, it seems like Lance tells his best friend _everything_. Which is … oddly endearing.

Still, it's not like Hunk _needed_ to check in on him. For the billionth time, Keith can't help but consider the fact that Hunk is actually just a huge, sweet teddy bear. He's only known Hunk for a little more than two months, and as well as they get along (which is a _huge_ relief, given some of the other roommate horror stories that Keith has overheard), Keith is nowhere near as close of friends with Hunk as Lance is. Still, it's surprisingly nice to know that Hunk is worrying about him.

 **Keith (8:13):** Yeah, I'm doing fine. Thanks for asking. How's the trip going?

 **Hunk (8:13):** glad to hear it! make sure you get enough rest.

 **Hunk (8:13):** it's beautiful here. the weather is great, and it's super nice to see everyone again.

 **Hunk (8:13):** how's the weather by you?

 **Keith (8:13):** Sounds nice. It's rainy and cold here.

 **Keith (8:13):** Not that I would get to enjoy it anyways.

Not with Lance being such a fussy hardass, at least. Keith bites back a grin, reining in on the urge to actually say that to Hunk. Although Hunk would probably find it funny—

Keith pauses, suddenly struck by a thought.

What if Lance didn't tell Hunk that he had stayed at the dorm? Obviously he had at least mentioned that Keith was sick—otherwise, Hunk wouldn't have known. But, like, telling your best friend that their roommate is sick seems like common courtesy. Telling your best friend that you've randomly decided to stay at the dorm over break with your sick lab partner… that seems like something else altogether. Especially because Keith is still not sure if that's _actually_ what's happening here, or if he's somehow just completely misreading the entire situation.

Besides, Lance said he was probably going to have his mom pick him up a different day, didn't he? So really, it's more like Lance postponed his trip home to take care of Keith's sick ass… which… now that Keith thinks about it, sounds a lot less like Lance _choosing_ to hang out with him and a lot more like Lance just being a supremely kind person.

This is doing nothing to improve Keith's antsy, increasingly grumpy mood.

Luckily, his phone chirps with another message from Hunk before Keith can mire himself any further in such thoughts.

 **Hunk (8:14):** aw that stinks. hopefully the weather will be nicer for you tomorrow!

 **Hunk (8:14):** and hopefully you'll be feeling good enough to enjoy it!

 **Hunk (8:14):** things really quite in the dorm?

 **Keith (8:14):** I don't think I can take another day sitting around inside.

 **Keith (8:14):** And yeah, I haven't run into anyone else yet.

 **Keith (8:14):** I know Megan's on duty as RA on the third floor, but I haven't seen her at all.

Keith laughs and types, _But I wouldn't call it quiet—Lance talks enough for three people_ , then stops short. Right. Maybe that's not the best thing to tell Hunk.

He hits the backspace with a little more force than is probably necessary.

 **Hunk (8:15):** sounds kind of nice!

The door opens, and Keith looks up from his phone as it chirps again to see Lance come back in.

"Kay," Lance says, shutting the door with a shimmy of his stupid-thin hips. "Got the good stuff for me, and the green crap for you."

He's got a can of Chef Boyardee in one hand, a bag of chips in the other, and the bag of salad and Dayquil tucked under one arm. The sight is so ridiculous that Keith almost laughs out loud. Somehow he manages to keep his face straight.

"Here," Lance says, tossing the bag of salad onto the bed next to Keith. "You got a spoon I can borrow?"

"On the desk," Keith says. "Bring me a fork and bowl while you're at it."

Keith looks back down at Hunk's texts as Lance moves across the room.

 **Hunk (8:15):** k well I gotta get going.

 **Hunk (8:15):** let me know if you're feeling better tomorrow!

 **Hunk (8:15):** hope you guys have fun and don't kill each other lol

Keith stares at the final text, re-reading it _just in case_ his eyes are playing tricks on him.

 _hope you guys have fun_

 _hope you guys_

 _you guys_

Keith's heart is fluttering to a strange, double-time beat. Hunk knows. Lance _told him_.

It probably shouldn't matter. It could mean absolutely nothing. Keith is probably—scratch that, _definitely_ —blowing this whole thing out of proportion.

And yet somehow… the fact that Lance told Hunk seems _significant_.

He struggles for a few moments before coming up with a decent response.

 **Keith (8:17):** We're actually getting along surprisingly well. Have fun.

Keith lowers his phone into his lap, glancing back over the conversation _again_. Each time his eyes pass over _you guys_ , his heart stutters anew. Like the complete and utter fool that he is.

"Dude, you okay?"

Keith jumps, quickly looking up from his phone to find Lance watching him with a frown.

"Oh, yeah, yeah," Keith says quickly, accepting the bowl and fork as Lance hands them over.

"You sure?" Lance asks, studying Keith closely. "You're looking kind of red again. It's probably been long enough for you to have another dose, if you want."

"Oh god, _no_ ," Keith groans. He does not want to choke down any more of that stuff. Then again, he's _also_ desperately hoping that Lance won't notice that his flush is most definitely _not_ fever-driven. "I'm fine, quit feeding me that gross crap."

"Excuse me?" Lance asks, sniffing loudly. Keith tugs Lance's blanket out of the way before Lance plunks down on the bed beside him once more. "That _gross crap_ is what's helping you get better, thankyouverymuch. Besides, you're already feeding yourself gross crap." He shoots a pointed stare at the bag of salad as Keith opens it up and shakes some into his bowl.

Keith rolls his eyes and folds the bag back up before setting it aside. "Seriously, Lance. If you eat this much junk all the time, I'm surprised _you're_ not the one who got sick."

"How many times do I have to tell you?" Lance asks. "Steroid-infused immune system." He pulls on the tab, tears the lid off of the Chef Boyardee can, and sets it aside on a napkin. Then he picks up his spoon and digs right into the can.

Keith watches on with growing horror as Lance eats a spoonful straight out of the can, then goes back for another scoop.

"Wait, stop, _stop_!" Keith wraps his hand around Lance's wrist, stopping him mid-bite. "Aren't you gonna heat that up? Or at least eat it out of a bowl?"

"Eh." Lance shrugs. "My bowl is still dirty."

"Okay, but my other bowl is _right there_ ," Keith says firmly, gesturing toward his desk. "You can use that and heat it up so that it'll actually taste halfway decent."

Lance scrunches up his face and hums in thought. Then, with another shrug, he says, "Nah, I'm good."

To prove his point, he tugs on his arm, dragging Keith's hand with him, and shoves the spoonful of cold Beefaroni noodles into his mouth.

Keith lets go with a noise of disgust, dropping his hand back to his lap.

"Don't be hating, lettuce boy," Lance replies in an annoying, too-high voice. "Just be glad I'm not trying to force feed you something you don't like."

Keith pins Lance with a flat stare. "Like the medicine?" he asks calmly. "Or that shitty mac 'n cheese?"

"Oh, shut up," Lance whines, smacking Keith's shoulder. "Feeding and taking care of a _child_ is a lot harder than it looks."

Keith opens his mouth, ready to argue that he _hardly_ qualifies as the child in this situation. But Lance beats him to the punch and quickly adds, " _Anyways_. Since we're _obviously_ not going out for a run… it's come to my attention that Twenty One Pilots have four albums and I've only heard one."

He looks up at Keith from under his eyelashes and puts on a doe-eyed, pleading look. "So… wanna listen to another album?"

And Jesus fucking Christ. How is Keith supposed to say no to that? Or say _anything_ to that? Or not _spontaneously combust_ when pinned with the full force of Lance McClain's stupid, ridiculous, overwhelming, distracting, wobbly lower lip?

Fuck this man, seriously.

"Yeah," Keith replies weakly, his voice catching. "Uh, sure."

"Cool!" Lance chirps happily, his pout instantly shifting to a blindingly bright smile. "Which one's next?"

Keith stops to consider for a moment, trying to decide. "I think we should do _Vessel_ ," he says eventually. "Half of the tracks are different versions of songs from _Regional_ , but it's worth a listen through."

"Sounds good to me," Lance replies excitedly. He types in a search, then scrolls through the results. "Should I pick another full album video?"

"That should be fine." Keith settles back further against the wall, munching on his salad as Lance selects a video and starts the music.

The hardest part about this—that is, having Lance listen to his favorite albums—is that Keith is finding it excruciatingly difficult to decide whether he should sit in silence and let Lance enjoy the album in piece, or whether he should jump in with random tidbits to make the entire thing more interesting. After all, as much as _Keith_ loves Twenty One Pilots, he sort of suspects that listening to a full album in one go is rather tedious.

Keith sneaks periodic glances over at Lance, hoping to glean _some_ sort of inkling as to whether Lance is actually enjoying this or not.

And, well, granted. _Lance_ is the one who suggested this. But still. Keith is finding it a bit difficult to discern how much of this is Lance just being overly nice because he's still kind of sort of sick.

Every now and then Lance will catch one of Keith's furtive glances. Each time he shoots Keith a little smile, or a quick waggle of his eyebrows, or a little dance along to the music. Which _still_ doesn't tell Keith anything, because, c'mon—that could easily be either Lance being nice or Lance just being… well, Lance.

But halfway through the album, in the middle of a song, Lance's eyes widen. "Dude," he says. " _Dude_."

Keith takes a deep breath through his nose, a grin working its way onto his face. "Yeah."

Lance leans over and squints at the screen. "This is "Semi-Automatic?""

Keith merely nods, gesturing to the screen as the second verse comes in. Lance breaks into a wide smile as the music picks up. Then, with a half laugh, Lance rests his head back against the wall, eyes drifting closed. "How do they have so many amazing songs?"

Keith can't tell if this question is meant to be rhetorical or if Lance is _actually_ expecting him to supply an answer. He's hoping it's the former, though. First, because Keith has been wondering the exact same thing for the past four years and _still_ doesn't have an answer. But also because Keith isn't sure he can open his mouth and _not_ gush about how excited he is that Lance is enjoying their music seemingly as much as he does.

It's kind of weird. Twenty One Pilots has always been Keith's vent music—something to put on when he needs to escape from the world and not deal with anyone. So _sharing_ their albums—actually physically sitting here and watching as Lance listens through their songs—almost feels intrusive. Kind of like asking Lance to read his seventh grade diaries—because yes, okay? Seventh grade Keith was entirely convinced that the unfortunate struggles of his life were worth documenting, for reasons that current day Keith still has trouble comprehending.

Which is all to say that this entire situation feels intensely personal.

But also, even more than that, it's making Keith feel oddly buoyant. Yes, his gut keeps wriggling uneasily now and again, worried about what Lance might think of a particular line. But then, seeing Lance _enjoying_ those lines, _enjoying_ the songs—it seems... something. Something _important_. Something that Keith can't quite put a name to. In a way, it's exactly the same feeling that has been steadily growing in his chest over the past two days.

Except it's also _not_. It's more than just feeling appreciative that Lance cares enough to help him get better. It's more than enjoying tossing pleasant banter back and forth. Instead, it's like Lance is looking straight at his soul and saying, "Hey, so this is you, huh? Cool."

Which is, quite frankly, entirely overdramatic. But it's also kind of, y'know. Nice. And even though Keith probably _should_ care that his mind is quickly taking on a rather Lance-like, over exaggerated flair, the truth is that for some reason, he really doesn't seem to mind.

...

The album is nearly over when a beep echos through the room. Keith is momentarily confused, until he sees Lance lean over and take out his phone.

From the corner of his eye, Keith can see Lance reading through the text. So he _also_ sees the exact moment that Lance freezes.

It's a little thing—Lance's fingers stop tapping on his thigh, and his gentle inhale cuts short—but it feels like a punch in the gut.

Keith waits a few moments, giving Lance a change to explain or at least to reply to the text. But when the silence stretches on, he finally asks, "What's up?"

Lance takes a breath, then hesitates, and suddenly Keith's insides are squirming again. Then, lips pressing together, gaze not quite meeting Keith's, Lance says, "My mom wants to know if you want to come over to our place for Thanksgiving dinner, since you're not planning on doing anything."

It's Keith's turn to freeze in place.

"I…"

Keith's mouth opens and closes soundlessly a few times as he struggles to come up with any sort of proper response.

"I'm sorry, _what_?"

Lance shrugs, looking for all the world as if this is no big deal—as if he's simply offering Keith a piece of gum—save for the fact that he's _still_ not quite meeting Keith's gaze. "She's inviting you over for Thanksgiving."

Then, finally looking Keith in the eye, Lance adds, "If you want to."

All of Keith's words have up and vanished again. As it is, he's still having a hard time fully believing what he's hearing. Lance's mom—and the rest of his family, for that matter—know absolutely _nothing_ about Keith. And they would just… randomly invite a complete stranger? A _sick_ stranger? To their holiday dinner?

The prospect is both super sweet and utterly terrifying.

This is only further complicated by the entirely strange look on Lance's face as he watches Keith. He looks half reserved, and half like he's bracing himself for Keith's answer. Which, seriously, what? Keith has no idea why Lance would need to have _either_ of those reactions. If anything, Lance should be asking what's wrong with his mother's judgement.

Unless… unless Lance doesn't _want_ him to go, and is worried Keith will say yes. Lance has already given up a solid chunk of his break to look after Keith. Maybe he just needs to get away? Honestly, as much as it hurts to consider, Keith wouldn't blame him for it.

Lance is still watching him, rubbing his thumb anxiously along the edge of his phone and waiting for a response.

Keith shrugs uncomfortably. "Doesn't she know I'm sick?"

"Yeah?" Lance replies. He waves his hand dismissively. "I really don't think that's a problem."

That seems like a pretty major problem to Keith. Then again, given Lance's blasé attitude toward Keith's cold, perhaps this shouldn't be so surprising.

"I mean," Keith says slowly. He's still trying to find _some_ way for Lance to understand how utterly ludicrous this offer is. "I bet you have a lot of people coming over..."

"Yeah, tons," Lance confirms, looking less and less uncertain with each passing moment. "Both my mom's _and_ my dad's families come over for Thanksgiving. It's the one holiday where everyone all gets together."

Oh _jeez_. That sounds like a friggin _lot_ of people. Which is only further convincing Keith that this is a definitely bad idea. Especially because Keith is _not_ good with large groups of people he doesn't know. _Especially_ especially when he has to make _small talk_ with said strangers.

Still trying to play it cool, Keith says, "I couldn't possibly intrude. I don't want to cause a hassle."

"Uh, it really wouldn't be." Lance shoots Keith a skeptical look. "It's really no big deal. Adding one more to all those people isn't going to make any kind of difference. And it's not even like my mom would have to go out of the way to pick you up or anything, since she would already be coming to get me."

Seeing Keith's frown, Lance adds, "Seriously, if all you're worried about is making things difficult, don't. She wouldn't ask if she didn't want you to come."

Keith shuts his mouth around another protest and takes a moment to seriously consider the offer.

Part of him really doesn't want to turn down Mrs. McClain's kindness. This is so much more than he deserves from a complete stranger. And honestly, it would be kind of cool to get to see Lance at home, in his element. To see if his family really puts up with all of the shit Lance dishes out at school.

But, well, _two_ extended families? That sounds like a _shit ton_ of people. And what if Keith gets too nervous and clams up? It would be far from the first time that has happened. What if Mrs. McClain thinks he's being rude? What if he gets there and Lance's family doesn't like him? What if he gets them sick? What if—

Lance gently bumps his shoulder against Keith's. Surprised, Keith looks up to find Lance smiling gently.

"Dude, if you don't want to go, that's perfectly fine," Lance tells him. "You don't have to force yourself."

This _should_ be a relief. But somehow, Keith only feels worse.

Especially because, most of all, Keith really kind of _wants_ to spend his Thanksgiving with Lance. It's been unexpectedly nice, y'know, having his company and not being all on his own for a few days. But even that reason is fairly flimsy. After all, Lance bought enough food to last them well beyond several days. So maybe, probably—hopefully—Lance is planning to come back on Friday.

Keith takes a deep breath. "It's… not that I don't want to. Your mom is really sweet, and it's so kind of her to offer. I just…"

Lance is watching him closely, and Keith isn't even sure how to react. Instead, he forces himself to continue. "I just, well, I don't do well with large groups. And plus, I would feel like I'm intruding—"

Lance frowns, opening his mouth in an obvious attempt to cut Keith off. But Keith continues, a little more loudly, "—even if you guys don't think so. I would still feel uncomfortable. So, um. Please tell your mom I really appreciate her offer, but that I'm not really feeling well enough."

Lance lets out a slow breath and shrugs. "Alright, fair enough. I'll let her know that we'll just hang here instead."

Keith is halfway through nodding when Lance's words finally work their way through his thick skull. He turns his head toward Lance so fast his neck hurts and watches in stunned silence as Lance types out a reply on his phone.

Somehow, his mouth manages to pull it together long enough to ask, "... Aren't you going back?"

"What?" Lance asks distractedly, still typing. He glances up briefly before returning his attention to the screen. "Nah, I'm planning on staying here."

Keith can feel his face turning bright red at a rather alarming rate.

Because Lance just… he just said… _Lance wants to stay here._ With _him_. Not even, like, _Oh, Keith isn't feeling well and I need to take care of his sorry ass_. But, like, is actually choosing to spend his holiday with Keith, eating shitty junk food and listening to music or… or… whatever the hell it is they're gonna do.

He's not upset with Keith for feeling uncomfortable. He's not upset with Keith for turning down his mom's invitation. He's just quietly accepting it and moving on as if it's no big deal.

Which is a _big fucking deal_.

Quite suddenly, Keith is entirely overcome by the jolting realization that he's got it _bad_. And not, like, the jittery, fluttery, _Oh lord I've got a crush on this guy_ feeling. Oh, no. Keith is rapidly finding himself falling fast and hard, spiraling ever deeper into the suffocatingly sweet quagmire that is Lance McClain.

And the scariest part is, Keith isn't at all concerned with trying to find his way back out.

His head is still reeling from this disorienting conclusion when Lance looks back up from his phone.

"Seriously, are you sure you're feeling alright?" Lance asks, leaning in closer to Keith. "You're looking kind of out of it again, and your ears still look a little red."

"No," Keith says, though there's zero force behind the word. "That's not it. I'm—"

What? _Fine_?

That is patently false.

When he doesn't continue, Lance's frown tightens. "Listen, I think you should take another dose. And don't argue with me on this—it's better to be safe than sorry."

Before Keith can reply—probably because Lance is _still_ expecting an argument—Lance gets up off of the bed. He grabs the salad bag from where it's sitting next to Keith, then heads over to their mini fridge and places it inside. On his way back, he nabs the Dayquil from the desk.

"Here," he says firmly, holding the bottle out.

Keith accepts it without argument, all too conscious of the way their hands brush in the process. Lance watches on as Keith dutifully opens the bottle, measures out a dose, and knocks it back. Once he finishes, Lance nods in solemn approval.

"Alright," Lance says, accepting the bottle back from Keith. "I'm gonna go bring the dishes to the kitchen, and then I'll be back."

Even with his head still feeling a bit too light, Keith can't help but shoot Lance a flat look. "Are you going to wash them, too?"

"Nah, I'll do that later," Lance says, heaving a little shrug.

Which is completely and utter _bullshit_.

"Liar," Keith accuses. "That's what you said before."

"No, seriously, I will," Lance promises. "But it's already late, so..." He trails off with a little wave of his hand as he gathers up the bowl and utensils.

"Listen, these are _my dishes_ ," Keith tells him. "I don't want them sitting around in the sink all night. If you're taking them over, then just wash them off."

"You're so bossy," Lance replies, nose scrunching up in distaste. "There's no one around to be bothered by them."

Keith can _feel_ the look of disbelief that's currently painting his face. "Me?" he asks defensively. " _I'm_ bossy? You've been bullying me into taking that medicine all day!"

"That's different," Lance says. He turns his head to the side, nose held high in the air. "I did that for your own good. I'm allowed to be bossy." Then, seeing Keith open his mouth, Lance moves closer to the door and adds, " _Anyways_ , I'll be back in a minute."

The coward slips away before Keith has a chance to argue further.

With a deep breath, Keith lets his head thunk back against the wall. His heart is still pounding outrageously fast, an odd counterpoint to the miffed exasperation Lance has left in his wake.

This guy is so…

Overwhelming. In just about every sense of the word. He's all twist and turns, argument inextricably intertwined with enjoyment—an endless, swirling maze that leaves Keith dizzy and constantly wanting to know more.

Keith's chest feels full again.

Good _lord_ , he's in so deep.

Keith sighs forcefully and closes his eyes. He needs to _get it together_. So, okay, yes. Keith is quite possibly in love with his idiot lab partner. Which—

Fuck. Did he say _in love_? What the actual fucking hell? That's, like, not even possible. There's a line somewhere between intensely-crushing-and-head-over-heels-beyond-all-reasoning and being fucking _in love_ , of all things. Keith is fairly certain he hasn't managed to cross that line yet.

His head hurts.

The door opens, and Keith cracks an eye open to see Lance walking toward the bed. His stomach is back to doing somersaults.

Lance stops short when he sees Keith watching him. He shoots Keith a concerned frown and says in a rather quiet voice, "Y'know, if you're not feeling good, just say so."

Keith watches him for a moment, considering how to even respond to that. Honestly, his stomach is a wreck, his face is heating up, he's dizzy. But this time, it's all _Lance's_ fault. With a sigh, Keith closes his eye again and leans his head back against the wall.

"Nah," he says. "Not feeling sick. Just chillin."

Somehow, it comes out sounding calm and convincing.

Keith slowly inhales and exhales, waiting for Lance'a response that never comes. Eventually, he cracks his eye open again.

Lance is standing by the edge of the bed, directly in front of Keith. His face is a mix of worry and hesitation, and Keith can't help but think with fond exasperation that Lance is almost _too_ kind hearted. Which only serves to make his heart pound ten times harder in his chest.

Lance shifts uncomfortably and bites softly at his bottom lip. "Well. Do you wanna… I mean, if you're not feeling well—or even if you just don't want to! But…"

Keith watches closely as Lance flounders. It's like … Lance is trying not to step on his toes or something. And with a swooping feeling in his gut, it occurs to Keith that maybe Lance is worried Keith might turn him away.

Keith purposely sits up and calmly stretches his arms forward. Then, glancing up at Lance, he asks, "You up for another album?"

A hopeful smile breaks across Lance's lips, then falters and settles into a look of guilt. "I mean," Lance says carefully. "Only if you want to."

He _is_. He's _nervous_. And maybe he just doesn't want to push Keith too hard out of his ridiculous concern for Keith's health. But it's still hesitation. It's still happening.

"Idiot," Keith says, a little more gruffly than he was intending. "Why would I ask if I didn't want to?"

Lance's smile returns tenfold, blinding and dazzling and just as fucking overwhelming as everything else about him. "Kay, scoot over then!" he demands. Or tries to demand—his voice has an oddly giddy quality to it that is causing a grin to tug at the corner of Keith's mouth.

As Lance grabs his computer and shimmies back onto the bed, Keith tries to settle down his spinning thoughts. After all, just because Lance is acting anxious doesn't _necessarily_ mean anything. He could just be wildly mis-reading the situation here.

But, well… for a guy who up and decided to spend his break with Keith, Lance almost seems a little _too_ nervous. What does he have to be worried about? Unless… you know… Lance is nervous about flubbing things up with _Keith_ just as much as Keith is worried about flubbing thinks up with _him_.

Hey. All he's saying is that somewhere out there is a universe where Lance McClain might possibly, sort of, a little, maybe have some interest in Keith.

Y'know. Romantically.

And if _that's_ the case, then who's to say that the universe where Lance has a crush on him isn't _this_ one?

Like, not even a big crush. Just a tiny one. Itty bitty. Like, a it-happened-once-in-a-dream-and-now-I'm-kind-of-low-key-considering-it crush. Keith is hardly expecting for his lab partner—who he's only know for, like, _two months_ , and who he's barely gotten to hang out with until just yesterday—to have developed anything major.

After all, even Lance wouldn't be dumb enough to fall as quickly and desperately for someone as Keith has for him. _Especially_ not if that someone is Keith.

But maybe, just maybe, there's a chance.

The rational part of Keith's mind keeps trying to convince him not to get his hopes up. After all, maybe Lance just wants to be friends. Very good friends. Like he is with Hunk.

But on the other hand, Keith isn't _blind_. There have definitely been more than a few awkward moments between them. Up until now, Keith had been writing Lance's reactions off as the unsure responses of someone interacting with an almost-but-not-quite friend. But he's beginning to increasingly suspect that maybe there's something else behind Lance's lapses of awkwardness.

Maybe.

Or maybe that's just his heart putting a far too optimistic spin on things.

"Which album are we doing?"

Keith looks down at Lance's screen. "Their first one," he says. "It's a self-titled album."

"Got it," Lance replies. He pulls up a search, then hovers over a video. "This good?"

Keith nods, watching with a wriggling stomach as the video begins. Jesus, he needs to pull it together.

To his surprise, Lance rests his laptop on the small expanse of mattress in front of him, freeing up his hands and lap. Then, with a long sigh, Lance leans back against the wall and lets his head thump back, mimicking Keith.

The album's long opening build up begins, and Keith finds himself hesitating, torn between just letting Lance enjoy the album at its face value or mentioning his own thoughts. But…

"This album…." Keith trails off, still not even sure what he's trying to say. Lance turns his head against the wall to look at Keith, and it suddenly occurs to Keith just _how friggin' close_ their faces are.

Fuck. He wants to just lean over and kiss him.

 _Bad idea. Really fucking bad idea._

Lance is still watching him curiously, so Keith tries again. "This album is … a lot. It's heavy, and there's so much going on, and just. It's one of the most amazing things I've ever heard. Even though _Regional_ is my favorite. This album is what convinced me that they've just _got it_ , and I can't even explain why."

"Wow," Lance replies, looking slightly awed. "It's that good?"

"It's that good."

Lance lets his head roll so he's looking back up at the ceiling, and Keith leaves the conversation at that. He still feels kind of dumb—if it's really that great of an album, he should at least be able to explain it better. But Lance doesn't seem to care, which, Keith supposes, is what matters most right now.

Keith takes a deep breath, then lets his eyes fall closed again, feeling the music flood out everything else.

For a while, they stay just like that. Keith feels Lance shift every now and then, his arm brushing against Keith's shoulder occasionally. But part of the beauty of this first album is that it's surprisingly mellow, and the perfect kind of low key music for just sitting around and listening.

Somewhere in the middle of "Oh, Ms Believer," Lance shifts enough for the bed to creak. Keith opens his eyes and watches curiously as Lance sits up.

"It's so … fragile," Lance says out of nowhere.

He frowns, staring intensely at the screen like he's trying to solve some sort of puzzle. "Like, every single one of these songs are almost painful, and yet beautiful, and almost, like, timid. Like, to the point where it almost makes me feel like I want to cry."

Keith could probably throw a jibe in there that he doesn't doubt Lance would cry.

Except he's a little too flabbergast to say anything. Because _that's it_.

"Yeah," he says weakly, mind still reeling. "That's…" _Fuck_ , that's _exactly_ how Keith feels about it.

Lance leans back, as if he hasn't just somehow taken all of Keith's completely indescribable feelings and summed them up perfectly in a few short sentences.

 _Breathe_ , Keith tells himself pointedly. _You can fall even further for him later_.

Which is kind of hard to manage when each passing song only further proves how completely accurate Lance's description is.

And if he happens to hear Lance's breath catch and waver slightly during "Before You Start Your Day," well then, Keith can just pretend that he doesn't notice that he's falling that much faster.

For a moment, as the album fades to silence, the room is caught in an unbreakable tension. Then Keith turns his head to look at Lance and asks, "So…?"

"Holy shit," Lance breathes in reply. He looks rather shellshocked, eyes slightly widened, and Keith can't help thinking that he makes an excruciatingly beautiful image to accompany such an excruciatingly beautiful album.

"Yeah?" Keith asks.

He already knows the answer, but that doesn't make Keith's heart beat any less quickly when Lance smiles and says, "Yeah."

"Good," Keith says decisively. "Let's listen to it again."

He's half expecting Lance to argue as he leans forward and presses the replay button. But Lance merely grabs his pillow, cradles it in a bear hug in his lap, and settles back with a content look.

Keith can't help but wonder if maybe it's a little weird. Sitting in bed and not even really talking or anything, just listening to ridiculously beautiful music.

Then again, if Lance doesn't mind, Keith thinks that being weird obviously can't be that bad.

"You know," Keith says eventually, smiling as "March to the Sea" begins. "I'm kind of in love with the alien imagery in this one."

He glances over at Lance, waiting for a reply. After a few moments, he frowns and asks, "Lance?"

Lance doesn't say anything—doesn't even move, his eyes closed, arms still wrapped around his pillow. It slowly dawns on Keith that Lance is asleep.

His first thought is _Thank god_. Now they've _both_ fallen asleep on the other, and he can stop feeling uneasy about this afternoon.

His next thought is that he should _probably_ be a good friend, shake Lance awake, and tell him to go crawl into Hunk's bed.

Except…

Well, Lance has done so much for him today. It'd be kind of cruel to wake him up, even to help him move over to a different bed.

Yeah, that's it.

Obviously it has nothing to do with the gentle blush working its way onto Keith's cheeks. Which is dumb, anyways, because they slept together last night. And, from the way Lance acted, it was obviously no big deal. And it's not like _Keith_ is opposed to the idea of sleeping together again. Because it's _no big deal_.

Keith reaches over absurdly slow and carefully shuts the laptop screen. He pauses, fingers resting gently on the computer as the room goes silent. Lance's chest continues to slowly rise and fall, completely unfazed. Relieved, Keith moves the computer to his nightstand. Then he looks back over at Lance.

As comfy as Lance looks, Keith thinks it's maybe a bad idea to let Lance sleep sitting up against the hard wall all night. He crawls slowly up the bed until he's sitting right in front of Lance. Then, as gently as he can, Keith tugs Lance's pillow out of his arms. The action causes Lances to lean precariously to the side, and Keith has to struggle to breathe while watching such a stupid-cute display.

He sets Lance's pillow down at the head of the bed. At this point, Lance is leaning halfway down to the pillow, stuck in limbo against the wall. Keith glances around, then quickly grabs his own comforter from the foot of his bed. He settles the blanket over Lance and carefully tucks it around his shoulders. To his vast relief, the movement seems to jostle Lance enough for him to pitch all the way over, his face landing on the edge of his pillow. Oh well… close enough.

Keith gets up and flicks off the lights, wrapping Lance's blanket more tightly around him as he does. Then he crawls back into bed, careful to maintain as much distance as he can between himself and Lance in the small single. Which … isn't much.

He breaths carefully, watching the silhouette of Lance's head just a few inches from his own. Then, with a long breath, he closes his eyes and tries to fall asleep.

It's a lot harder to do than normal.

And it's not even because Lance is right fucking there. Or because he's _still_ wrapped up in Lance's comforter—the comforter that _Lance_ put on him. Or because the hauntingly beautiful songs from the Twenty One Pilots album are still swirling around his mind, acting as a constant reminder of what a strangely perfect evening it's been. And afternoon. And morning. The whole day, really. And it's not even the fact that Keith has four more wonderful days of Lance all to himself to look forward to.

No, it's not a single one of these things.

It's friggin' _all_ of these things bundled up together. The fact that Keith is so friggin taken with this stupidly wonderful guy is just the cherry on top.

A yawn forces its way through his mouth, and Keith snuggles deeper under Lance's comforter. He should just sleep. Really, he should. There's really no reason to feel so worked up now, of all times, anyways. Lance is _asleep_.

The bed shifts suddenly as Lance stretches out. Keith freezes as Lance moves in the small bed, his legs bumping against Keith's bent knees. Holy _shit_.

Something knocks against Keith's wrist and he starts hard enough to jolt the mattress. Then Lance's fingers wrap around Keith's wrist and Lance, mumbling, pulls his hand back in toward his chest, dragging Keith's arm with him.

The heavy pounding of Keith's heart is so loud it chases all other noise out of the room. He lays stiff as a board, entirely unsure what he should do. His stomach lurches far too pleasantly each time Lance's fingers squeeze or brush against his wrist, sending skittering shockwaves dancing down his arm.

Keith reasons that, in a minute or two, Lance's grip will probably loosen enough for Keith to wriggle his arm free. Lance, however, seems perfectly content to hug Keith's arm close for the rest of the night. As the minutes stretch on, Keith becomes less and less certain that he'll be able to wiggle away.

It's not like he's entirely disappointed by this realization.

Keith fights back another yawn, finding it that much harder to open his eyes as his jaw finally eases closed. He takes one last look at Lance, who he can see much more clearly in the dark room now that his eyes have acclimated. Keith can't quite make out the details of Lance's face, but it's impossible to miss just how closely Lance is hugging his arm.

It is, Keith thinks, the most wildly adorable he's ever seen Lance, if only because Lance isn't trying to act like anything. It's like Keith is seeing a small truth, one that's buried so deep down inside of Lance that the only way to catch a glimpse of it is when there's absolutely no guard left. It's almost like Lance is a child, stubbornly hugging his favorite stuffed animal close.

 _Cute_ , Keith thinks, his eyes finally drifting closed.

His last thought, before succumbing to sleep, is that he wouldn't mind it. Being Lance's favorite thing to cuddle. He wouldn't mind that one bit.

* * *

 **A/N:** First and foremost: yes, this story is ongoing, and yes, there will be more. Specifically, this fic will be either five or six chapters. FYI, future chapters will (HOPEFULLY) not be this long. Hopefully. Wednesday is just a special day xD But, on the upside, that means they also shouldn't take me quite as long to write! (Hopefully.)

Okay. So. I'm not sure how apparent this is, but I do a lot for the sake of my stories. I put in a lot of time and research to try to be aware of what should or shouldn't be included. I talk to friends who have been through experiences I haven't (*ahem* living in a dorm *ahem*). I try medicine for the sole sake of accurately describing it. But for this chapter, I suffered through hell. I decided, No, it isn't enough just to imagine what Lance's vile, sriracha-with-a-side-of-mac-n-cheese concoction is like. I need to _make_ it. For science. For accuracy's sake. For the love of my craft (or Kraft, heh). … Okay, maybe I'm overdramatizing this a squidge. But let me tell you this much: mac n cheese drowning in buffalo sauce soup is repulsive, and no amount of additions could salvage the bowl of noodles that I willingly chose to destroy. I tried, I really did. It's impossible. Anyways, I checked, and apparently it's not dangerous to eat an absurd about of sriracha. Even so, this concoction is basically inedible, so please don't try at home.

Also, let's be real, I just could not pass up the chance to include as much Twenty One Pilots in this fic as I thought I could get away with. I've been a huge TOP fan for years and am so excited to see them finally getting major recognition. I've always kind of thought that Keith would be a TOP fan, and this AU presented the perfect opportunity to bring this aspect in x)

I was planning on having Lance and Keith get through six PR episodes Tuesday night. Only four were out when I wrote Ch1, but I figured I could make it out as if they had gone on to watch two more before passing out. But then I watched the fifth episode. I _balled my eyes out_. Watching Alex take the fall was like watching someone rip my heart out of my chest. And I just _knew_ that I needed to write Lance's reaction to watching his favorite contestant go out in such an emotional way.

I highly considered having Keith go back with Lance to his family's Thanksgiving dinner. But… I liked the idea of the two of them staying at the dorm and having their own lowkey celebration instead. It just felt like it fit better. Plus, I feel like there's already a lot of klance fics where Keith goes back home with Lance? I absolutely LOVE that trope, but I wanted to change it up a bit uwu

After I posted Ch 1, I realized that, although we got a very in depth view of Keith's opinions on Lance, we didn't get the same from Lance's POV on Keith. Luckily, there were down times in this chapter where it made perfect sense to work those details in, so I was able to remedy that.

Confession: I snack on raw cauliflower. Please do not take Lance's rants as a reflection of my personal thoughts on people who enjoy fresh produce xD

Second confession: contrary to Keith's derision, you do not have to listen to all of a band's music to appreciate them or be a fan~

In case you're dying of curiosity, the Linkin Park song was "Burn It Down." I couldn't find a good way to work in the title.

Ironically enough, I just assumed both Lance and Pidge were messy roommates before the news came out that Pidge is a hoarder. Lucky guess, I suppose?

Oh, and yeah, accidentally kissing a friend's head while checking their temperature? That's totally something I've done. Let me tell you, it's quite embarrassing. But your lips are much more sensitive to heat than your hands! It just makes sense to check that way to get a better feel for how hot someone is. (Or how _hot_ , if you catch my drift ;D Lucky, lucky Lance.)

Also, I feel like I might as well rename this fic "Keith wakes up." We've now seen him wake up … what, four times? I might start keeping tally. Four more days to go-any bets on how many we'll get to see (from his POV) by the end of it?

As I mentioned last time, this fic is a (very belated) birthday gift for kenbrah, my number one partner in crime for klance fangirling. Thanks, Liv, for putting up with my copious amounts of klance plotting and unending stream of fic ideas 3 I also owe major thanks to Gumi (gumisae) and Mel (mlim8) for their input on this fic!

And again, a super huge thanks to all of you for reading this! Please don't mind me as I go huddle in a corner and cry overwhelming amounts of happy tears. You folks are amazing. As always, if you want, come scream with me on my Tumblr~ (Konekat - *obligitory NSFW warning*)


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